Exception to the Rule
by GinTsuki
Summary: Moriarty isn't playing games anymore.
1. Chapter One

**Exception to the Rule**

.

* * *

Chapter One

* * *

.

The resonance of rain was a gentle overture compared to the noisy rattle of the window pane - strident testimony to the horrible weather that plagued London in the early spring. To the sullen detective pressing his face to the glass, the present state of the world seemed like a metaphor for the turmoil thriving within his highly developed cranium. Outside, the sky and the sea had switched places - water flowed without end, pouring into a receptacle with unlimited volume. Occasionally bright flashes of lightning fractured the heavens into what looked like shards of a dark mirror. In the intermittent illumination, small black and white figures appeared on the slick pavement below – city people darting frantically for cover, like cockroaches in the light. Accompanying rolls of thunder were deafened in the sound of splashing cars and the flickering television glowing in the reflection of the window. Sherlock didn't even know why he kept the thing on; currently all channels offered nothing but static.

It was white noise for a black mood.

A child murdered by the river - a politician's daughter missing - stolen baubles belonging to some mystic man from the far east. His mind was full of cases that left nothing to the imagination. It was as if the crime in London had no spirit left for Sherlock to chase.

Ever since that damned night at the pool.

The man moved away from the window as if stricken. Those events were something to best be left forgotten, and yet they still plagued him when nothing else would. His mind was starving and if he didn't get something to chew on then insanity was eminent.

Desperate, his eyes strayed to the bookshelf, lingering on _A Brave New World_ by Huxley. The detective had gutted the book months ago in order to store his personal toxins away from inquisitive eyes. He hadn't touched any of them since before John's arrival into his lifestyle.

It was a stroke to Sherlock's pride that Lestrade's team hadn't discovered them in his '_drugs bust_' last month.

Sherlock tilted his head in thought, wondering if he would dare play the needle against his arm. Would the euphoria be worth John potentially finding him in such a state? As a medical man it would only take him seconds to figure out what he had done. Would he risk the weeks of silence?

He could barely stand the silence now.

He sat down heavily on the sofa – a defeated man. The mere shadow of John seemed to tame the storm brewing within the man's core, and some part of him hated it. The doctor was an anomaly – an impossibility; and yet he got himself beneath Sherlock's skin. Him, _Sherlock Holmes,_ the world's only consulting detective now infected by _John Watson_, an ordinary man. It was… _annoying_.

As if beckoned, Sherlock's violin found its way into his hands. It was a mahogany marvel, used for ruminating or chasing fat siblings from the establishment. With a twitch of his lips, Sherlock set a sweet melody dancing into the stale air of the flat. It was a suitable distraction. _Bloch Nigen_ - the walls would weep had they eyes.

The song died on a flat note when Sherlock heard the front door swing open wide. Instantly the violin was unceremoniously cast to the sofa as a familiar voice mixed discordantly with one that was a deep tenor.

"_Yo ho… blow… blow the man down…_"

The lyrics were ripped apart with hiccups and laughter as John and another man tromped their way up the stairs. The smell of alcohol greeted Sherlock far before his flat mate's presence did. There was some stumbling and an awful lot of giggling before the twin forms emerged in the doorway and looked around blearily at the room.

John's eyes floated to Sherlock's and stayed there a moment. The consulting detective took the moment to roam over his friends figure.

Wet clothing. _Very_ wet clothing. Laces of his trainers stained reddish around the aglets where they were dragged through loose dirt; his soles were also caked with rich soil mixed with a strange combination of debris that could only be from a careful gardener's compost. John's shirt was more expensive than his usual wardrobe, though buttoned sloppily, indicating it had been removed then put on again - likely due to the humidity of the pub they attended. The quality of John's clothing drew Sherlock's attention to the person his friend was likely dressing up for.

The man sported a tan much like the one that was slowly fading around John's wrists and stood just a little too flatly on his arches to indicate he was a civilian. A military man then – obviously from John's regiment, most likely a subordinate since Sherlock didn't sense any rigidity in John's stature… though they were both thoroughly plastered. There was a ring on his finger – married, newlywed judging by the way the ring sat loosely off the knuckle and the tan which persisted beneath the gold. If the detective had to hazard a guess, he would say this man was Bill Murray, the orderly who had been texting John over the last month to meet for some drinks. Looks like he got what he came for. The stains on the man's trousers indicated that he had fallen twice on route to the flat.

"Evening gentlemen."

"S-sherlock…" John slurred, the smile slowly crawling across his face causing one of the detective's eyebrows to quirk. "Do you mind if Bill bunks here t-tonight?"

"As long as he does not upset any of my experiments." Sherlock's head tilted slightly to match the angle of the stranger's ruddy face - his eyes were unfocused and a curious shade of brown. Absently he wondered if Murray's silence was out of shyness, insobriety or nausea.

Just as the thought crossed the detective's mind, the man hiccupped wetly and Sherlock kicked a bucket filled with miscellaneous biological components towards the orderly's feet.

It was most definitely nausea.

The sound of stomach contents hitting pulpy post-dissected organs made John turn pale. Sherlock grinned disdainfully. He was about to take a step forward to assist John in removing Murray's soaking coat when his smart phone vibrated within the confines of his shirt pocket. Quickly he withdrew the device and accessed the text with practiced fingers – hoping for a truly unique murder to get his mind in motion. In the background, the pair of drunken military men were momentarily forgotten.

As Sherlock had assumed from the awkward hour, it was a message from Detective Inspector Lestrade, complete with a picture of a body sprawled on a drenched lawn. What was interesting about the corpse, was the gaping hole where the man's heart should be; not to mention the building engulfed in flames behind him. Sherlock noted it was taken less then a minute ago.

"Sherlock, are you all right?"

"_Hn_…?" The man's pallid face was sporting a peculiar expression; his eyebrows had knitted together and his eyes gleamed in the light of his touch screen. John couldn't tell from his perspective if the man was excited or terrified. It took the detective a whole minute to realize the doctor was waiting for an answer to his question.

"Yes. Yes… I suppose I am. Your friend Murray is welcome to the sofa… I don't plan on sleeping tonight."

John gently maneuvered his friend to the furniture offered, taking a moment to nudge Sherlock's violin out of the way; the pail full of biological components soon followed. Every so often John's eyes would flicker to his flat mate's face as Sherlock studied the picture on his mobile. The task almost made John fall on his face twice.

"G-going out, in this weather?" He hiccupped, then blushed slightly. The thoughts came slowly, but John knew should not have drank as much as he had. He was going to regret it tomorrow when he was due at the clinic.

"Yes. I believe I am." Sherlock pivoted on his foot, the movement making John feel dizzy just looking at him. "And you could do with some water. I can't have my blogger getting dehydrated on the eve of a big case!" He gave one of his charming smiles before disappearing into the cluttered kitchen.

John peered curiously after his friend before shrugging off his coat and throwing himself into his chair. He hadn't remembered feeling this tired in a long time. It seemed like seconds before Sherlock was back with a mug of water in his hand.

"You do realize you're soaked all the way through…?"

The doctor nodded wearily, "The chair will dry by morning… I'll clean my muddy prints tomorrow as well - before Miss Hudson g-gives me the evil eye." He hiccupped again, making Sherlock grin. John stuck his tongue out childishly and took the mug of water off his hands. As he sipped it, he watched Sherlock wander around the room collecting various items. The man seemed far more energetic than before…

"So that was a case then…?" John commented on the earlier text, his voice was becoming more and more slurred; which was strange since he had been feeling so much more sober upon entering the house. Maybe he was more tired than he thought.

Sherlock started to mix up some strange chalky solution in a bowl, which John had earlier labeled '_for science purposes only_' after a horrible incident involving oatmeal and pureed viscera.

"I suppose you could call it that." The man paused to look at the ceiling for no particular reason, making John follow with his eyes curiously. There was nothing there - at least, nothing that John could see. Just the light fixture, which was a lot brighter then the doctor remembered…

"Though, a threat may be more accurate."

"I see…" The room was starting to slide. It was a peculiar feeling, and it took John a moment to realize that in actuality, it was just his head sinking of it's own accord down towards his shoulder. With a frown, he looked at the mug now slipping through his fingers before glancing back to Sherlock with a bit of concern. There was some strange words on the tip of his tongue meant for the eccentric genius, but the doctor couldn't remember what they were. They died unuttered as his eyelids drifted close and the mug hit the carpet with a dull thud.

As if cued, Sherlock moved to John's side and took a hold of one of the doctor's wrists. Withdrawing some putty from his pocket, the detective applied it around John's thumb and index finger. Once he molded it perfectly around his knuckles, he removed the putty and set the rough moulds into a near by test tube tray that had some other curious, yet unrelated, concoctions evaporating within. He then poured the solution he mixed up earlier into the drying fixtures and let it set while he worked on untying John's shoes.

Another text made Sherlock reach for his phone. It was Lestrade asking if he was on his way.

Sherlock ignored it and ran his hand through John's hair, keeping any stray strands that came off in his hand. Then, the detective went back to his moulds and fetched the fresh false fingers he had made. After checking the plaster for any flaws, he dipped them in a thin coat of wax which he had started to boil earlier - back when he had fetched John's '_water_'. As he waited for them to cool, the detective cast a wary glance to the sleeping Bill Murray; satisfied the man wasn't stirring, Sherlock moved on.

Once the cooling process was completed, he coated the fingers in a very sparse amount of animal fat and rolled them in tin foil. Finally he placed them in his pocket and cleaned up his materials. Finishing that, Sherlock plucked up John's shoes, John's jacket and lingered at the light switch, sparing a glance at the cluttered room and the sleeping men within. It was unnervingly quiet, even with the storm and static of the television still resonating in the background.

Like a ghost, Sherlock turned off the lights and donned his coat, slipping out of 221B Baker Street into the heavy rain. The thunder masked the sound of the front door snapping shut and lightning cast a long shadow that was quickly swallowed up by the night.

For the first time in weeks, Sherlock's mind was burning.

.


	2. Chapter Two

**Exception to the Rule**

.

* * *

Chapter Two

* * *

.

Sunlight filtered through the windows of 221B Baker Street, highlighting dust and casting fuzzy halos across every surface. In the corner, blending into the motionless scene, slept Dr. John Watson with his mouth half open. As the sun slipped over the London sky line, bright rays of white light penetrated further into the room and made the man slumbering within groan in protest. Slowly, John twitched and blinked himself into consciousness, wary that it was now morning and he had most likely made himself late for work. The sounds of early traffic outside dissolved any half-remembered dreams and left him feeling oddly vacant, as if some sort of life shattering epiphany had been forgotten in his mind.

A rather painful epiphany from the feel of it.

Starting at the base of his neck and curling into his temporal lobes was a headache that could kill a small child. With a stiff motion, the doctor raised one of his arms and held it against his eyes, silently begging the world to end so that he could sleep on indefinitely.

Yet, like a timid spirit, the smell of smoke wafted into his nostrils and John widened his eyes in confusion - desperate to determine its source. Had Sherlock burned something? It wouldn't be the first time he awoke to find something in flames. He had never forgiven Sherlock for setting his military trousers on fire to see what color the flame was.

"_They're standard issue John; you can put the gun down now…_"

John had his gun cocked and loaded that time. He was so angry and so intent on controlling the situation in the only way he knew how, that his temper got the best of him; but the look in Sherlock's eyes had held him. It was those eyes that said a pair of pants didn't matter in the grand scheme of things and that John was being a fool by holding onto such simple rules society gave him. He might as well have been brandishing a stick at the whole of the universe rather than aiming it at Sherlock Holmes.

Sometimes that man could get under his skin in ways the sands of Afghanistan could not.

From the limitations his chair, John looked around his cluttered apartment. His bleary eyes took in certain discrepancies, most of which he would have to bring up with his flatmate the moment he was presented the opportunity. First was the disappearance of Bill Murray.

His friend wasn't exposed to personalities bordering on the insane and may be bullied into participating in an unethical experiment. John rubbed a hand sleepily over his face, picturing the orderly downing a flask of questionable chemicals. The mental imagery was frozen as a strange texture was felt upon his face. Pulling his hand away, the doctor noticed some chalky blackness smudged around his fingertips. He seemed to be covered in something sooty.

_Charcoal_?

With some creaking of unyielding joints, John stood from his chair to get a proper look of himself in the mirror. Not only were his hands coated in ash, he also had traces of it on his cheeks and around his right eye. For the life of him, the doctor could not fathom the meaning of it.

"Morning," came a voice from the entrance. "Trust you slept well… had a busy night from the looks of you."

John swung around, wincing at the sudden pain in his head. A sunbeam had decided to spear him right in the eye, giving Sherlock a dramatic silhouette.

"Sherlock, you didn't scare Bill into leaving did you?"

Sherlock tutted and distracted the doctor by shifting some of his common room rubbish from one pile into another; it was a prime example of his non-existent domestic skills.

"Of course not. He left for his own reasons." He stared at the new pile he made and then back to John with a smile; for a moment the doctor wondered if Sherlock were awaiting praise for his failed attempt at tidying.

"I made you breakfast." The detective said suddenly - and far too cheerfully for John's liking.

"What did you do _now_?" The tone used was similar to that of a tired mother speaking to a particularly uncooperative child. The doctor regretted it the moment he heard himself say it.

Sherlock's face fell, and for some reason that marshalled more concern in John than did the unexpected breakfast. It wasn't like the usually detached detective to act emotionally affected by the words that came out of John's mouth, and it made him scrutinize his flatmate a little bit more thoroughly. Doing so, John _knew_ Sherlock was acting; it was something in the way his mouth moved that gave him away - too much pout, and not enough of it reflected in the eyes.

Good lord, he was starting to observe and deduce on his own now.

"Honestly, it's not what _I_ did from the looks of things. You're a proper mess by the way - I hope you've noticed." Sherlock looked the doctor up and down with a disdainful eyebrow before continuing, "If you really must know, I came to the conclusion that it would be more efficient to prepare your breakfast before you awoke. Now you have time to shower before you're due at the clinic."

John looked even more suspicious, "Awful nice of you."

"Yes… _quite._"

Sherlock threw himself down on the sofa and helped himself to John's laptop. The bewildered doctor couldn't help but notice Sherlock was no longer making eye contact with him – just another anomaly to plague him throughout the day. This morning reeked of eccentricity.

"You've obviously been leaving me alone with Mrs. Hudson for too long. She came in this morning to check on you by the way; followed your muddy prints right into the flat." Sherlock paused as if he were letting the information sink in.

John merely nodded, his guilty face falling upon the shiny floors. They smelled of Mrs. Hudson's cleaning solution.

The detective grinned as he glanced at the computer interface and typed in John's passwords as if they were his own. "Her habits are starting to encroach on my own. If you're not careful I might be tempted to make you tea."

"That would be the day." Knowing Sherlock, he'd be safer drinking bleach.

With some residual misgivings, John made his way into the kitchen and spotted the toast and jam his flat mate had prepared. It was balanced precariously within a sea of Erlenmeyer flasks and peculiar beakers - all of which were crowding out the table. John sighed and resigned himself to plucking an overloaded slice and putting it in his mouth. He tried not to think about what had previously been in those flasks while he chewed.

"So, last night… you got a case? I can hardly remember…" John spoke around his toast, trying to get the volume of his voice high enough for Sherlock to hear him from the sofa. It was difficult, so he gave up early in the sentence. Every memory from the previous night seemed to be lost in an impenetrable haze – which was odd since John knew he didn't drink _that_ much. Almost subconsciously his eyes lingered to a mug resting alone in the dish bin; it looked neatly washed and _very_ familiar - another oddity in a small space of time.

"John, you're going to be late."

"Oh. Yes, well…" He put away the rest of his toast and headed to the shower. His headache must have been addling his mind, for something still didn't feel right about this morning. There was a voice in the back of his head screaming at him to put it all together – but put _what_ together? What was he missing?

The sound of his footsteps faded towards the bathroom, leaving Sherlock alone in the common room. His eyes flickered to the stairway and his face contorted into one of curiosity. The expression only lasted for a moment as he refocused intently on whatever he was working on.

Ten minutes later, a shiny John in a dress shirt and plain trousers came bounding down the steps. He paused during his downward journey to grab his jacket hanging on the coat rack. As his fingers grazed the material, John slowed down, his face slackening as if he were entering a trance. Once the jacket was in his hands, he frowned and stared at it as if it offended him in some way.

"Sherlock, I noticed it before, but… the smell of smoke - it's coming from my coat."

"Brilliant observation John. Time to work on your deductive skills." Sherlock sat up a little straighter and looked up from the laptop.

John's frown grew more prominent. "There was soot on my face and hands when I woke up." His eyebrows knitted together and his voice faded into thought. When he spoke again Sherlock's attention span had expired. "Were they there when I came in last night?"

"I couldn't be bothered to retain such trivial information John." The detective's eyes went back to the computer screen. His body seemed to condense, drawing less attention to itself.

"Sherlock, I'm serious." John decided to fetch a different coat, which happened to be an embarrassing shade of teal. The weather was still too cold to forgo outer apparel - much to the doctor's misfortune. "I don't remember being anywhere near the fireplace." He cast a worried eye in that direction as if it would hold the answers he sought; but the hearth seemed even tidier than the rest of the house - not a cinder to be seen.

"The clock John."

"Right…" John gave his flat mate one last look of concern before disappearing down the stairs without another word.

.

Sherlock shut John's laptop gently before getting to his feet and fetching his coat. As usual, his mind was running on more than one track, and it was obvious from his expression that one of them was not pleasant. He cast an eye around the still room, looking for anything of importance he may have missed from the set-up that morning. Finding nothing, the man wasted no time pulling on a pair of gloves and heading for the door.

He turned up his collar on the way downstairs to fend off the breeze he knew was sweeping in from the west. His stride was confident as he popped out onto the street - until a black car subtly sidled up to him from the road.

It was compact and shiny, the sort of vehicle one would appreciate in thought, only to move onto whatever colourful contraption was parked next to it. The plates were government issued, but Sherlock didn't need to glance in its direction to deduce its true source. The door opened with a smart click and a young woman stepped out. Sherlock knew her as one of Mycroft's attendants; but even with his meticulous attention to detail, her name had escaped him throughout the years. He merely referred to her as '_the girl_' if it came up in conversation.

"Morning Mr. Holmes, care to join us?"

A few seconds of tension seemed to stretch the moment into something longer. First, then second thoughts came to a standstill, and in the shadows of the car Sherlock could see the outline of his brother waiting patiently for a decision to be reached.

Breaking the awful mood, Sherlock brushed past the girl - his back rigid and his movements lacking their usual fluidity. As he entered the backseat, the girl shut the door with an efficient snap and relocated herself to the passenger side. In the time it took for the car to take to the street, Mycroft had turned his face toward Sherlock and with a look of bewilderment settling on his brow, he fidgeted with the handle of his umbrella.

The sound of the child-locks clicking in the background made an odd chill crawl up the detective's spine. He wondered what careful words his brother could possibly say.

"What on earth are you doing - or _planning_ on doing – since I know that mind of yours is buzzing with _some_ foolish idea. One that is going to place me in a very difficult position."

It was daringly blunt, but Sherlock understood. His brother was no fool.

"You had a camera installed in my light fixture. I noticed it a week ago and was going to see what sort of mischief I could get up to."

"Yet you used it to make sure I kept an eye on John whilst you were away _framing him_ for something devious no doubt. The only conclusion I can come up with is: you want him out of the way for something cunning." The look of accusation hardened into one of suspicion. "What is it?"

Sherlock's eyes strayed to the window. "I don't intend to tell you."

Mycroft's eyes narrowed. "Then why are you here?"

The man shrugged, "You tell me."

"You've been threatened."

Like Sherlock, Mycroft's powers of deduction were powerful and he didn't hesitate to reveal it. His little brother clicked his tongue impatiently, but it didn't stop the politician from running with his theory. "I knew that look on your face the moment I saw it - _Fear_ Sherlock. Fear as clear as day."

The detective kept his eyes on the passing store fronts, refusing to give the elder Holmes any more information. Unfortunately this left him open to a firm umbrella strike across the chest, which slowed his arms reacting to Mycroft's fingers slipping into his jacket pocket and pinching his phone.

"Mycroft! You fat-"

The man sighed as he fended off a furious Sherlock with his umbrella while simultaneously accessing his recent calls.

"Name calling Sherlock? You're much too old for that sort of rubbish… Mummy would be very disappointed if she were here."

Sherlock's eyes darkened. "Give me back my phone."

"I wouldn't have to resort to such underhanded methods if you hadn't blocked off any feasible method of remote access." The elder brother peered at the picture Lestrade had sent, then flicked through some of Sherlock's latest texts. He frowned when he found nothing of particular interest. With the air of a defeated man, he threw the phone back to his younger sibling. "If there was a threat in the photo, I don't see it; then again, that might have been the point."

With eyes like cold steel Sherlock sneered at his brother. "This is _my_ business Mycroft."

"And yet you're the one who silently asked me to babysit your inebriated side kick." The older sibling gave his usual haughty grin.

"I wasn't one hundred percent certain you were paying any attention at that moment in time… and if you were, it would have been an added reassurance - that's all."

Mycroft took a moment to try and read his brother's body language; it was one of Sherlock's very few weaknesses. Though, it wasn't always an entirely reliable source of information. Sherlock had the habit of misleading others by using twisting subtle movements the same way bad liars could capably deceive using poor delivery of the truth. Nothing was more dangerous than a man who knew how to utilize his faults. Despite this, Mycroft gleaned some valuable information - only because Sherlock was playing this game very close to his chest.

"You think your new enemy might target John, and that is why you're framing him. The DI will be forced to watch him whilst you go out to amuse yourself." The silence made the man more confident in his conclusion. "Smart Sherlock… but John is not going to like this."

The consulting detective practically rolled his eyes. "That has nothing to do with it."

Mycroft decided to try and press for more pieces of the puzzle.

"Who is threatening you Sherlock? You know you don't have to play their game… I know people-"

"I don't need your help Mycroft!" The man finally shouted, showing his temper. "I am perfectly capable of solving this problem myself. Why can you never grasp that?" Sherlock's eyes flashed with something akin to desperation before he regained control of himself and pointedly glared out the window. His voice calmed, leaving only a faint bite in his words.

"You're putting yourself in my way."

Mycroft clenched his jaw, his own temper simmering just beneath the surface of his calm visage.

"No Sherlock, I'm trying to help you and you're pushing me away. That's always been the trouble with you - you can't tell an enemy from an ally." Silence punctuated Mycroft's sentences as the younger Holmes was determined to tune out his brother. "It's going to put you into a precarious situation – and I know you walk away from them unscathed most the time, but there is going to be one where you won't. It's a fact Sherlock – a fact that we both know _very_ well. But in your head, you think the sacrifice is something you'll choose - your life, your career. What you _don't_ know is that, yes, you _will_ lose something Sherlock - but it won't be you. It will be something you didn't even know you had – and it will tear you apart."

"Are you quite finished?"

Sherlock's tone indicated that he was closed to an outside opinion, but Mycroft continued anyway while he still had him in the car. Dark things followed his brother like a shadow, and the man seemed to throw caution to the wind in favour of upping the ante in during his sinister games with London's underworld.

"You're stubborn, arrogant and selfish Sherlock… and you're playing with fire."

"Driver! St. Bart's please." Sherlock was now ignoring his sibling entirely. It was a juvenile pastime, but it was one that worked.

The Driver gave Mycroft a quick look in the rear view mirror to confirm the destination, to which the man gave a restrained nod. They traveled to the hospital in uncomfortable silence, both Holmes' staring intently out of opposite windows. The pair twitched occasionally at the memory of each other's multifaceted words.

When the car finally came to a stop Sherlock exited at top speed. He nearly tripped backwards when Mycroft caught his forearm and locked eyes with him for a final confrontation.

"Don't do anything stupid."

Sherlock tugged his limb roughly back to freedom, and shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his coat. "I'm a genius Mycroft; there is nothing stupid in the work I do. Goodbye and good luck with the diet." His sentiments were caustic, earning himself an angry flush of red on his brother's face before the man retreated into the shadows of his car.

The door slammed behind him ominously; the tension still managing to penetrate the sudden barrier between them. It was only when the car finally drifted away from view that Sherlock started feeling in control of the situation at hand. He discarded the multiple warnings of his brother like a pair of soiled gloves the moment the smell of death and mystery beckoned to him from the hospital. With a focused mind he wandered towards the morgue – ready to examine the heartless body within.


	3. Chapter Three

**Exception to the Rule**  
.

* * *

Chapter Three

* * *

.

The corpse lay bare and pale beneath the bright lighting of the morgue. Dark chest hairs and subtle bruising cast synthetic shadows across soft skin. Obviously the man was used to working indoors, yet his physique implied his job encouraged physical activity. The victim's face was unmarked save some interesting stains on his teeth - red wine; five-o-clock shadow dominated the lower half of his face, indicating that he had shaved close to his time of death. His hands were clean, fingernails immaculate and well cared for. No noticeable tattoos, which surprised Sherlock since the man seemed like the type. Large expensive rings and a heavy silver chain were laid out neatly on a stainless steel tray next to the occupied table; none of which were a wedding band. There was hairline scarring around the groin area - the man's genitalia had been enlarged surgically over a year ago and he liked his nether regions bare. Judging from his earlier observations, Sherlock theorized the man was in the porn industry. The quality of the clothing currently laid out for forensics to pick up, was expensive but gaudy – meaning money but no taste.

The large hole penetrating the man's thoracic cavity attracted the detective's attention the most. Ribs were rent like dry twigs, muscle like paper… all in the pursuit of the one organ nestled snuggly at the core of everything - now missing; replaced by a pile of ashes, a sickly sludge lying at the base of the victim's ribcage – just like Sherlock assumed.

The sound of a heavy door being thrown open, followed by the footfalls of hard soled shoes made Sherlock note the presence of Detective Inspector Lestrade and one of his nameless subordinates. He didn't look up from the body as they approached; he was far too focused on the scratches he found on the victim's hand to greet them with his eyes.

"Decide to show up after all? Not much you'll get off this poor sap. Wallet missing, nothing but his clothes and jewelry at the scene. Couldn't get into the house till 5am this morning when the fire was put out. It wasn't his place. Owned by some out of town bloke by the name of Caleb Wilkins – his brother. Our stiff is Daniel Wilkins. Only called you because of this sick business with the body."

Sherlock hummed in response. "Strange, wallet stolen but not the jewelry. He was killed in the house, dragged to his final resting place - as you no doubt already know. Poison was the killer's method; most likely mixed with red wine…"

Lestrade looked astonished, but didn't ask how the man knew without a toxicology report. "We found a broken bottle at what was left of the crime scene. Two sets of fingerprints on it… one of them belong to the stiff, the other set are being run through our system as we speak."

"Good… good…" Sherlock continued inspecting the body, looking carefully at the jagged edges of the chest wound. "Hardly need my help at all."

The new face next to Lestrade wrinkled his nose. "Why the heart though? I mean… the killer made the effort to toast the damn thing and put it back in his chest..."

"Yes. Most interesting." The detective muttered before retreating to his phone and double checking his theory. Once that was completed he slipped the mobile back into his pocket and looked to the police officer, "Anything else you found that would interest me?"

"Just one more thing…" Lestrade pulled out an evidence bag containing a small lilac business card. The blue writing on the back of it caught Sherlock's eye and the detective reached out for it subconsciously.

Lestrade looked shocked at the Sherlock's single mindedness but said nothing, allowing the man to handle the card as if it were the key to the world. He watched as Sherlock's long pale fingers passed over the handwritten message before he turned it over and read the establishment's information.

"_Eros_… a posh club orientated towards the gay community. It doesn't fit…" He turned the card over again. His eyes roamed over the writing there; piercing every curve of every letter.

_Follow your heart…_

What did it mean? Drawn next to the words was a simple heart with a small x set in the center. It was a clue; a challenge. The ink was the same used for the letter addressed to Sherlock less than a week ago. The letter that started it all. _Moriarty_.

"Why doesn't it fit?" Lestrade's assistant asked, breaking the silence of the morgue.

"Because the man was obviously killed by a-" He stopped himself suddenly, breaking into a coughing fit to cover the near slip of the tongue. "- killed by someone who wouldn't leave a message written as such. Look at his chest! They already left a message, why this then? Same as why leave the jewelry but take the wallet...?" His sentence faded into a whisper as the man retreated into his own thoughts.

"…time?" Lestrade's assistance supplied timidly, making Sherlock rub his face with his hand as if the action would shield him from the stupidity emanating from the clueless police officer.

"They had time to rip out his heart and _burn_ it; of course they had time to take the jewelry."

Lestrade looked to Sherlock curiously. He went to open his mouth to ask him to elaborate on anything he might have come up with, but was interrupted in the process by the sound of his phone chime. His mind turned to the office, hoping that they would provide some answers – he had enough questions.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade here."

Sherlock watched the detective's face as information streamed into the man's ears. Slowly his expression changed from its usual dim-witted expression to one of shock, then disbelief. His eyes shifted to Sherlock's face then to the far wall of the morgue – as if he needed to stare at something static to confirm he wasn't in some peculiar dream.

"Yes. Yes, I will. I think that's all I'll need. Thank-you." He flipped the phone shut before dropping both his hands to his sides. For a moment he seemed like a man who had lost all faith in reality, but then he centered himself and he looked to Sherlock as if he were all business.

"Where was John Watson last night at around 1am?"

Dead silence answered this sudden question and eyes met eyes from across the room. A chill weaved its way into the morgue that was entirely unrelated to the temperature of the refrigerators. Suddenly, Sherlock and Lestrade found themselves in the midst of a masquerade. One was playing the cop, the other an accomplice.

A dark smile curled at Sherlock's lips and he tilted his head a fraction to the left. "Why do you wish to know? Wait- don't tell me. You think _John_ killed the man before us."

Lestrade's face darkened and his posture straightened out. "We have his prints at the scene."

A shade of doubt crossed Sherlock's face, but he kept his composure. "He is a doctor you know. A profession that doesn't mix well with murder."

"He was a soldier as well. He has killed before."

Sherlock's air of confidence deflated marginally, and he turned his back to the inspector as if emotionally compromised. He used his new position to slip the business card into his pocket undetected. "No… John wouldn't do something like this. We both know that."

"Evidence doesn't lie Sherlock. I'm going to need to take him in for questioning."

Sherlock turned his head so he was now speaking over his shoulder. His voice was delicately sprinkled with determination stemming from _feeling_ - it was a wonder Lestrade didn't become suspicious. "He didn't do this. I'll prove it."

"_Now_ Sherlock? Because I'm all ears."

Slender hands coiled into fists but remained at Sherlock's side - body language was key.

"I'll need time."

"By all means. You have all the time in the world; but that's not going to stop me arresting Doctor Watson. Donovan and Walker are heading to the Walk-in clinic as we speak."

Sherlock's lips set themselves in a grim line. "You'll regret arresting the doctor, Lestrade. The media will blacken his reputation, then _yours_ once the truth is revealed.

The words seemed to echo around the morgue, and Sherlock knew they would have the same effect within the DI's mind. It would force the police to keep things as quiet as possible, perhaps saving the doctor from public embarrassment. So far everyone was playing right into Sherlock's hand.

.

The smell of disinfectant flooded the small examining room, but the occupants were already acclimatized to it as they went through the motions of an ordinary day. John felt as if he were wearing a second skin as he fished around his tank of liquid nitrogen absent-mindedly. There was something about being called 'doctor' that made his personality retreat into the far corners of his mind and a more mechanical essence to rise to the surface. Perhaps it was the military training… or maybe it was the waves of monotony drowning the life out of him; all John knew was that his work didn't quite satisfy him anymore.

"_Most people blunder around this city and all they see is streets and shops and cars. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield."_

It was true wasn't it? The Holmes brothers could read him like an open book. The man was an absolute marvel, and when John looked at him it seemed like the world was _alive_. Everything had _value_.

"Doctor… is it going to hurt?" Little Suzanna Fisher said from her position on the exam table. She was sitting quietly with one shoe and sock resting on her lap. Her brown eyes were searching John's face for an answer whilst looking hopeful.

John smiled reassuringly as he snapped out of his reverie. He ladled some of the steaming liquid nitrogen into a small cup then dipped in a large swab. "It might sting a bit, but that wart of yours can't feel much. Hold onto your mummy's hand just in case though." He moved to better see the bottom of the girl's foot. Sherlock was pushed to the back of his mind.

It was a simple procedure and it was over in less than a minute. Suzanna didn't even whimper as the cold swab froze the wart, leaving the skin sickly white.

"There we are. It might hurt to walk for a few days, but soon that wart of yours will be gone. I'll need you to come in again one week from now so I can have another go at it." The latter part of the statement was aimed at the girl's mother who nodded in understanding. The pair left quickly, giving John a slough of cheerful farewells and some time to wheel the tank of liquid nitrogen back into the storage cupboard.

Just as he went to lock the door, Sarah came from around the corner looking very agitated.

"John… some police officers are here to see you."

For a split second the doctor wondered in they were here for a check-up, but the absurdity of the idea struck it from his mind. The concern in Sarah's eyes meant that something was terribly wrong. Was Sherlock in trouble?

"Did they say what they wanted?"

Sarah's eyes never left John's face as she replied, "You John. They said they have a warrant out for your arrest."

John froze. His mind seemed to leave his body and contemplate his situation elsewhere. Detached from reality, images rolled across his inner eye. The mug of water Sherlock gave him last night, to the same mug clean and washed in the dish rack whilst all the other dishes still moldered in the sink. The charcoal on his face and Sherlock's comment that he hadn't noticed whether or not he had come in with it - Sherlock didn't miss _anything_. His jacket… he was certain he left it on the floor, yet when he woke up it was on the coat rack. His shoes. God, he fell asleep with them on and when he woke up he was in his socks.

"Sherlock."

Sarah touched one of John's hands in an effort to provide comfort. "John… what? What does Sherlock have to do with this?"

Fury rolled warmly through his veins as he marched into the waiting room and to the awaiting police. Sally Donovan was there with a professional expression looking wooden on her face, but John could sense the confusion and disappointment buried shallowly beneath. When she started to read him his rights, John's thoughts turned primitive.

All he knew was that Sherlock was behind this, and it wounded him more than any bullet ever had.

.

* * *

**Author's Notes**:

So. Very. Slow. I know, and I'm sorry. If I were writing this without an audience this would still be chapter one, but faster updates are good for you! Next chapter is going to be a lot better I promise. The chapter after that is going to be very fun to write. Sherlock is about to enter a world of trouble, and the idiot locked away his only chance of survival. Please bear with me and my slow slow beginning to a very complicated plot.

**Read and Review!** Point out my flaws if you can. Thank you _iDestiny_ for such an involved review (your fic _Goodbye_ is stunning by the way).


	4. Chapter Four

**Exception to the Rule**

**.**

* * *

Chapter Four

* * *

.

The stone walls of the holding cell had been painted over so many times that the texture was lost. Criminals could barely scrape their initials into the unforgiving latex, let alone notch the passing days; not that anyone was in there for very long. The cells at the Yard weren't meant for permanent occupants, and the enclosure John found himself in had not seen a visitor in weeks. There was some small comfort in that; no odour of urine, sweat or other bodily fluids assaulted his senses and the small bench he found himself laying upon seemed pleasant enough – though he wished his situation had been similarly amiable.

John had spent most the day attempting to plead his innocence while seated in an uncomfortable interrogation room. The officer he was speaking to didn't seem to comprehend that he had been framed by his evil scheming flat mate, and treated John as if he were a particularly malicious time bomb. The man also wouldn't let John talk to Detective Inspector Lestrade - or any familiar face for that matter, and when John asked for his phone call the officer merely chuckled and continued his endless tirade of ineffective questions.

When they realized that John wasn't going to be forthcoming with any information about the murder of Daniel Wilkins, they let him stew back on his bench.

It was at this point where John decided to reflect upon several points he'd discovered during his incarceration. The first was that his friend must have had a reason for throwing him into jail; the second was that the reason was sure to be logical – if only to Sherlock.

The doctor spent many an hour trying to put himself in Sherlock's shoes, but his fury and frustration towards the detective held him back from reaching any authentic conclusions. In the end he had buried his face in his hands and was trying to calm himself down, when the quiet footsteps of someone approaching his cell made him stiffen. Raising his head, he saw that it was only sergeant Sally Donovan.

She seemed nervous to be there and continually looked over her shoulder as if worried she was being followed. However, her eyes softened when she saw the state John was in, making the man smile faintly in spite of the atmosphere.

"I told you to stay away from him."

John sighed and leaned back against the cold stone wall. He didn't want to start rubbing Sherlock's face in the dirt when he had been busy picturing himself strangling the man for the last ten minutes - it just seemed overkill.

"Yeah. You did."

Sally wrapped her hands around one of the bars. "I was looking over the transcript of your interrogation. You think Holmes framed you?"

"I have a sneaking suspicion... yeah; but I can't prove it. Either Sherlock is pulling some horrid psychological experiment on me, or he's trying to keep me out of the house for some nefarious purpose. I didn't think he'd go to such elaborate lengths though-"

"Lestrade thinks he's been acting strange." Sally interrupted, casting worried glances down the hall. "He thinks he's hiding something – something big. Anderson volunteered to stake out Baker street for us. Lestrade's worried he's going off to try to do something stupid on his own. We need more information though; do you know what's going on in his head? We're thinking you would know better then most…"

John's forehead wrinkled in thought. "His case – the case you're working on - Sherlock started acting odd the moment he received that text last night. Is it the Wilkins murder? The one I'm being framed for?"

"Yes. Lestrade sent him a picture of the body."

John nodded, "I saw some pictures during my interrogation. The heart was cut out of the man's body."

"Then burned and the ashes left behind."

All the color in John's face drained at Sally's comment - he hadn't seen the ashes in the photos. Suddenly it all made sense.

The officer noticed the change overcoming the doctor and immediately all her attention was on him. "John. John are you all right?"

Her worried pitch didn't seem reach to him properly, and he just stared blankly at the wall, his eyes going distant as he put it all together. Sally looked down the hall again before speaking in a firmer tone. "John. Tell me what it means. I can't help you if you don't tell me what's going on!"

"Moriarty."

"What...?" Sergeant Donovan seemed incredulous, "The ghost Sherlock's been chasing... the man who strapped bombs to four people and killed dozens?"

"Yes. At the pool... he-" John stood from the bench and went to the bars so he was face to face with Sally. "Moriarty threatened Sherlock. He said that if he didn't back down then he was going to _burn the heart_ out of him."

Sally stood speechless for a moment. "Then why-"

"-Because I'm the only friend he has!" John cut her off mid-sentence in an explosion of frustration. "He didn't want Moriarty using me like he did at the pool. This time he's going to try to go head to head with that vile son-of-a-bitch without me!" John kicked the bench and fumed. "He's going to get himself killed. He's walking right into Moriarty's hands." Anger rolled off of John in waves. How could Sherlock be so _stupid_?

"Not if the yard has any say in it. Lestrade will know the instant Sherlock leaves Baker street since Anderson isn't going to let that freak out of his sight. We'll tail him right to Moriarty."

John rubbed his face; worry, frustration and hatred bubbled beneath his skin. "I hope you're right Sergeant, but don't blame me for being skeptical about anything involving Anderson."

.

The smell of pale compounds and powders wafted through Sherlock's bedroom as the man sat down in front of a large mirror and finished his latest creation. A false tan created with moisturizer and stain decorated his skin while a wispy platinum moustache adorned his lips. Spirit gum and several bobby pins secured a curly blonde wig over his own dark tendrils while a pair of sparkling blue eyes stared back at him from the reflection before him. It was a new look for Sherlock - even as his usual disguises went, but the detective did not want to take any chances with being recognized.

He practiced a few smiles in the mirror to finalize his act before shimmying into a hooded sweater and some denim slacks. Lastly, he dug out a passport and several cards that would pass for any required identification and placed them in his pockets. In moments his new identity was complete and with an American slouch Sherlock headed out the front door.

In the hallway he encountered Mrs. Hudson with the groceries. He gave her a toothy smile and a salute charged with charisma. This earned him a strange look, but there was no recognition in her eyes – which bode well for Sherlock since she had only been a foot away from his face.

"Visiting someone?" She asked from the foot of the staircase, suspicion in her voice.

Sherlock turned, the stupid grin still on his face. "Yep, saw that guy upstairs – Mr. Holmes. Friend of mine said he could help me find my laptop," his American accent was flawless.

Mrs. Hudson nodded, "That Sherlock can find anything." She looked to the ceiling with a faint smile. "I wouldn't worry about a thing if he took you on."

"I was thinkin' the same thing." He turned back to the exit and left without another word, leaving the land lady to her errands.

The setting sun cast a purple sheen over the urban environment, creating long shadows across the hollow crevices of London, and making Sherlock more alert then usual. As soon as he walked out onto the pavement the detective felt as if he were being watched. He wondered absently if Mycroft had changed his security status and had hired his additional eyes from a defective batch of personnel; yet he dashed that idea when he spotted a decrepit beige Austin Metro half a block down.

"_Anderson…_" Sherlock muttered under his breath as he turned left and continued down the street as if he were part of the lackluster pedestrian world. This direction happened to take Sherlock _towards_ Anderson, rather then away, causing the man to look at him with interest; however, his attention didn't last long as he resumed his faithful watch on 221B. Sherlock would have smirked had Anderson's presence not indicated that Lestrade thought something was amiss. The Detective Inspector's intuition could kick in at the worst of times.

The thirty minute walk to the nightclub '_Eros_' was full of twists and turns for the benefit of anyone who happened to be watching Sherlock approach. A few times Sherlock changed his clothing to shake off potential pursuers, even picking up a hat he found in an alleyway to cover his hair as he crossed a street. When he finally arrived, darkness had fully set in and he had lost his original hoodie. Instead he was wearing a form-fitting clover-hued dress shirt aimed to make him stand out in a crowd. The hat had disappeared into the nearest garbage bin.

"ID?" A saucy looking Scotsman said as Sherlock queued up behind two women holding hands and publicly demonstrating lesbian love at it's finest. The consulting detective held up one of his tailored cards and was waved through without incident. First hurdle accomplished.

The club was demure compared to most the establishments highlighting the night life in London. Sherlock felt more confident now that he knew his social skills could aid in his use of body language (for he did have some knowledge of the social arts, he just operated above the standards of society and choose not to conform to their mannerisms - unless of course, it was useful). The music was tame – a live band playing contemporary jazz, allowing for conversation - albeit loud ones. As if it were a ritual, Sherlock's eyes roamed over every face within his frame of vision to find clues.

There were 64 people present, most of which were lounging in strategically placed sofas; others were taking advantage of a handful of tables near the stage and sipping complicated looking beverages. A few were sitting at the bar and even less were working it. No one looked familiar, nor did any features attract his attention.

"New in town?" A particularly bold young man said from behind. Sherlock looked over his shoulder with his practiced smile. The surprise companion was shorter and much more stocky then he was, though Sherlock had a decade on him in age. His straight blond hair and dress told Sherlock that the young man was careful about his appearance, but his pallor and the beds of his fingernails indicated he wasn't particularly healthy. Circulatory trouble – perhaps a family history of heart failure.

"Not entirely. Student, transferred from the University of Arizona… but I wouldn't mind if you showed me around." There was just the right amount of charisma in Sherlock's expression and the perfect balance of authenticity and coyness in his words. The smile he received in reply was genuine.

The man placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. Cold – confirming the circulatory trouble; soft, recently manicured but not by a professional. Fingers rested with a slight curl, wrist was stiff – used a keyboard regularly.

"You don't have anyone with you?"

Sherlock shook his head, his blond curls seeming to catch his friend's eye, causing his iris to dilate by approximately thirty percent. There was attraction there; this man was definitely the visual type – especially since he seemed uninterested in names.

"Alone, but not by choice," the detective replied with the right amount of sappiness. He was rewarded by his companion's countenance practically glowing with excitement. The young man's boldness showed yet again when he guided Sherlock to a group of people chatting in the background. Sherlock decided to take the initative regarding names.

"My name is Martin by the way."

"Christian. Let me introduce you to my friends…" He grinned to the five individuals eyeing Christian with knowing smirks. "Jack, Allen, Lavender, Harry and Calamity."

Sherlock compared names with faces and filed it away for when such information would be needed. Blending in right now was key, but he wasn't keen on memorizing information that didn't pertain to his current mission. With some formality he introduced himself and quickly became one of the group. The only information worthy of note was Harry being a female, and Lavender a male.

There was also Christian, who seemed absolutely infatuated with him. His associates delicately informed Sherlock that Christian was a repeat victim of lust-at-first-sight and if Sherlock were interested in anything more permanent, he would be advised to look elsewhere. Sherlock waved off these comments with the air of disinterest, and after several minutes, excused himself to get a drink.

He ordered a rum and coke – wanting to come off as simple as possible, before returning to the group. It was at that moment when the band stopped playing and was replaced by another musical troupe.

The atmosphere changed immediately and Sherlock noted his adopted friends had persuaded everyone to move to a table in order to be closer to the stage. Upon investigation, Christian informed him that the singer of this particular band was a friend of theirs , and dating Harry – whom Sherlock just realized was likely John's sister due to her previously alluded to sexual orientation; not to mention, the shape of her ears and facial bone structure. Sherlock wondered if her presence were merely a coincidence or if she had something to do with his current lead...

Once the band finished their set up, the lights dimmed and the singer stepped onto the stage. She was average looking – stage make-up over done, wardrobe too flashy for the venue. Her voice was flawed; though there was _some_ talent in her singing, but nothing extraordinary; however that's not what drew Sherlock's full attention.

On her left forearm was a fresh tattoo of a heart with a small x in the center of it. It was hardly a week old by Sherlock's calculations, but he couldn't be sure at this distance. The symbol was exactly the same as the one penned on the back of the dead man's business card.

"_These boots are made for walking, and that's just what they'll do.  
One of these days these boots are gonna walk all over you..."_

The more she sang the more Sherlock wondered if she had been exposed to the stage before. There was a definite shyness in her body language as if she were worried some audience member might throw something at her. At first Sherlock thought her nerves might have been shot, but her band mates were casting worried glances her way as if this was something that wasn't expected.

"What's wrong with her…" Harry said over the lyrics. The words were directed to the others at the table, but they interested Sherlock the most. Her confusion meshed well with his current state of thought.

"What's different?" he inquired innocently, trying to keep the detective out of his voice.

"She's shaking… like she's nervous or something…" Harry grew more concerned as the tremble reached the singer's voice, causing some of her notes to go horribly flat. Sherlock watched as what he originally diagnosed as common stage fright developed into something more.

"_You told me you have no heart, but we both know that's not true.  
Fight me and I'll burn the fucking heart right out of you."_

Suddenly the lights died, casting everything into shadow. Several people screamed, but in the flurry of sound Sherlock made out the distinctive thump of a body hitting the ground and a microphone rolling across a stage.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

Well... this chapter was a bit of a pain. Longer then usual to make up for my late posting. I'm not very happy with Sherlock in this chapter... since it feels like he's kinda 'going with the flow' and that's not very much like Sherlock at all. I think I need more opportunities for him to manipulate stuff; it's just that John's not around so I can't exploit that side of him too well! Frustration!

The next few chapter's are going to make things go faster. More and more puzzles! This time designed to claw at Sherlock's personality... you'll see why later. Forgive my horrible proof-reading. **Read and Review**! I don't care if it's one word or even if it's a word at all. It's just nice to know that someone took the time to read my crap.

Thanks _mrspencil_ for the correction! I fixed it now (and did you stalk me all the way from the Star Trek zone? There seems to be a lot of Trekkies haunting the Sherlock genre).

_iDestiny_, your commentary makes my head swell. I swear... my ego is half as large as Sherlock's because of you.


	5. Chapter Five

**Exception to the Rule**

.

* * *

Chapter Five

* * *

.

When the nightclub plunged into darkness, the first thing that went through Sherlock's mind was '_move_'. There are several reasons why an enemy would kill the lights, the first one – which seemed the most likely, was to inspire fear; the second was to attack without the victim knowing from where, effectively rendering the victim defenceless. It was this latter option that made Sherlock cautiously duck and weave towards the stage.

Harry Watson, and several others in the near vicinity, pulled out their phones and used them as sources of light. Sherlock used the dim luminescence to vault to the singer's side and attempt to appraise the situation before anyone else ruined his data.

The woman was laid out in a half crumpled pile, her breath coming in short gasps. Sherlock grabbed her face in his slender hands and looked at her eyes with the air of one examining a biological specimen. Her pupils were dilated – indicating something was in her system. He went to her lips next - a strange shade of blue beneath the rouge, suggesting oxygen deprivation; but the way her tongue flitted across her teeth implied that she was suffering from dry mouth. It was poison.

He felt her pulse and the subtle twitching of the muscles beneath her thin wrist. From all the symptoms Sherlock collected, he could deduce several chemical culprits - but only one was likely.

"_Belladonna..._" he murmured as he let her head fall back.

Gently, he began to run his hands down her body in order to try and locate where the inevitable entry wound was. Meanwhile, the rest of the club was in chaos. Screams and cries of terror dominated the air, creating an atmosphere that did nothing for Sherlock's concentration. It didn't help that Harry chose that moment to slap the detective heavily across the face either; making him see stars for several seconds.

"JUST WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?"

Sherlock wondered if she was referring to his method of deduction - or the fact that his hands were all over her date. One look at her face told him that probability favoured the latter, and that her face turned the exact shade John's did when upset. Interesting.

"She was poisoned. I'm looking for a dart." He resumed his search, hoping that Harry was enlightened enough to refrain from hitting him again - his reflexes were terrible in this lighting.

Harry looked flabbergasted at the current events and stared at Sherlock as if he were some sort of alien. "Wait... you're not American...?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I can see you deduced from my lack of accent and sudden rise in IQ that I am, in fact, an Englishman. Now, if you would please hold that light a little higher I may still have a chance of saving your date."

He had located three narrow darts sticking out from the back of the singer's calf. This would place the attacker in the audience near the bathrooms if the woman had not moved after the lights went out. The enemy would have been in close proximity to their target to have buried their projectiles half an inch into the woman's flesh. Taking into account the distance from the shot to the stage, and the stage to the ground, the attacker had to be standing at about 5"11 – statistically favouring a male. Sherlock pulled out the darts and examined them under the light of his own phone. They were ornate – not meant for wanton killing. Specialist.

He started to rifle through the singer's clothing. There had to be a clue planted somewhere on her, but she had no pockets. The only place Sherlock could fathom a woman hiding something important was definitely somewhere Harry would break Sherlock's hand had he reached for it.

"Harry, could you kindly search the victim's brazier?"

"What?"

John would not have been this difficult.

"She doesn't have any pockets, and I am fairly certain that she has some sort of note, or clue, meant for me to discover somewhere on her person," the detective said slowly, as if it took every ounce of his patience to explain things at Harry's level. "And due to your violent tendencies, I thought it would be beneficial to my health to let you do it."

As ordered, the woman put her hands down the singer's bodice and looked astonished when she withdrew a yellow memo folded neatly into a square. Sherlock extended a hand and Harry looked to him as if she weren't sure he were a part of reality anymore. It was intriguing how often Sherlock received that particular expression.

"How did you know...?"

"I knew it was there because I was looking for it. Now if you will excuse me…" He lost his patience and plucked the note from her trembling hands. Upon unfolding it, he found the lyrics that the Harry's date sang before all hell broke loose, and an additional sentence that made the detective frown.

"_Open your eyes Sherlock_"

He looked up and around, his observation skills attempting to draw upon anything in the room. There were people still frantically scrambling over one another for the exits. Two bartenders were trying to calm down the populace. Others hovered around the stage, worried for the singer – one of her band mates was in the midst of a phone call with the authorities.

Sherlock moved onto the physical environment rather than the social. Everything was still dark; the streetlights flickered through the emergency exits and the main entrance, giving everything an unnatural tint of orange. The room didn't seem that different except –

Damn, he was an idiot not to see it before.

Fading in the gloom, was a splatter of phosphorescent liquid - most likely the contents of a glow stick. Sherlock followed the glowing droplets with his eyes, their luminescence making everything else fall away once he realized it was the beginning of a trail. He barely heard Harry shouting after him as he slid off the stage in order to weave through the maze of overturned tables and turn the corridor leading to the bathrooms. He was on the hunt now, nothing else mattered.

The glowing path ended at a door that had a 'closed for cleaning' rod jammed across it. It was the bathroom normally meant for invalids, but someone had scribbled out the wheelchair symbol and scrawled 'PHOBES' over top. Sherlock opened the door, careful to remove one of his shoes in the process of crossing the threshold so that the door would remain ajar. He wanted to ensure an exit route in case something went wrong - and things always went wrong when Moriarty was involved.

Light welcomed Sherlock, blinding him momentarily. Once his eyes adjusted, he noticed that inside the bathroom were three women; all of which were sitting tied together in the middle of the tiled floor facing away from one another. The two that could see Sherlock looked absolutely terrified at his arrival. Sherlock noted that they were identical triplets, each with thick red hair and tear streaked cheeks. Duct tape was wound cruelly around their lower face, keeping some large object in each of their mouths.

There was an open laptop sitting on the raised toilet which flickered the moment Sherlock entered the room. It drew his full attention once a familiar voice came from its internal speakers.

"_Pleased as always to see you Sherlock – and I **can** see you by the way" _His pitch fluctuated like it did at the pool, annoying Sherlock to no end._"Blonde does not suit you._"

"What sort of clue is this? Three women trussed in a bathroom, and a poisoned singer? I'm starting to wonder if you have something against the fairer sex."

A chuckle emanated throughout the little room. Sherlock wished he could read the facial expressions of his foe, but the screen remained black.

"_Don't try to analyze me yet, dear Sherlock. We'll have plenty of time for that later. Right now I want to have a little **heart**-to-**heart.**_"

"I'm getting bored of your theme Moriarty. Tell me what you want."

Moriarty purposely held back a reply, making the detective glance nervously at the bound women. They were there to serve a purpose, and Sherlock didn't like where his imagination was leading him.

"_You, __I want **you** Sherlock. Though… not the current you- the you you could be - if only I helped you._"

"You can't change a man Moriarty - didn't your mum ever tell you?"

Another chuckle. Another pause. He was whittling away the time, but Sherlock didn't know why.

"_Let me tell you the situation - if only to keep that brilliant mind of yours ticking..." _The way he let his sentence trail off into silence made Sherlock suppress an involuntary shudder. _"Beside you are three **very** interesting women. Sisters, as you no doubt have observed with those fascinating eyes of yours - I suggest you take the contacts out Sherlock… blue only suits the skin._"

Sherlock ignored Moriarty's tangents as he knelt before the first woman and took a look at the zip strip digging viciously into her freckled wrists. He then moved to observe the tape around her mouth, peering curiously at the bulge in her cheek. He went to touch it, but Moriarty cut him off.

"_Ah ah ah! Look but don't touch. If you get ahead of me these gingers will have to hope their dental records are up to date._" A more sinister note weaved its way into Moriarty's words, grounding Sherlock and setting his mind into high gear. _"In two of their mouths are some lovely explosives, all ready to blow remotely at the touch of a button. The third is an antidote that will save the life of Harriet Watson's unfortunate date."_

"Kind of you to supply one," Sherlock said sarcastically.

"_Well... I needed to give you a little incentive. I was hoping your watch-dog would push you into it; where is the bumbling doctor anyway? Hidden away where I can't sink my feisty little claws into him? Really Sherlock… you're so **protective** – and here I thought **you** were the cock… and he the mother hen._"

"You have the habit of boring me with repetition - the botulinum toxin, the bombers, and now the dreaded 'heart' focus. Do you always treat your dates this way, or is it only the _special_ ones?"

"_Oh… you're the only one Sherlock._" The timbre rose to embarrassing levels, making the detective inwardly wince. The high-pitched drawl didn't last long as the villain continued, "_I'll enjoy showing you the darkest parts of your soul – because I know you have them. You're very much like me._"

"I buy my underwear from Boden, thank you." Sherlock said off-handedly whilst still on his haunches, "Your incentive is going to be worthless in five minutes if you don't get straight to the point."

"_I take it back… you **are** rather cocky. Well here you are then – just for you. A little puzzle to solve so I can watch you work." _Sherlock could hear the fluctuation in Moriarity's words caused by his tongue rolling over his teeth - he was enjoying this far too much.

"_One of these whores did something terribly naughty. She is the killer of Mr. Daniel Wilkins – poisoned him and then burned his brother's residence to the ground. I need you to tell me which one is our prize arsonist... because you see, I have her confused with her identical sisters._"

"Rules?" Sherlock prompted – certain that there had to be some parameters, else it would have been too easy.

"_You can't speak to them - only to me._"

Sherlock nodded subtly as he placed his hands together in order to think. He had formulated a theory around the killer hours ago; after he had visited the body and seen the still smouldering crime scene. It _had_ to be a female - poison was a woman's method and the height of the killer was approximately 5'3" based on the footprints at the scene - yet that information was useless now.

Daniel knew and trusted the killer - at least enough to accept red wine – indicating a potential romantic involvement; though there were only one set of fingerprints all over the bottle – meaning Daniel brought the wine; but_,_ the killer had to lace it. She must have been wearing gloves – awfully suspicious - but not if she were elaborately dressed or in some sort of costume. The meeting was pre-arranged, however, there was the presence of a third party. Curious.

The third party was where the mystery began. The chest wound was just too nasty to fit the killer's profile, and the body was too much for a 5'3" woman to drag out of a house on her own without attracting attention.

When Sherlock was in the burning building (planting John's prints on the wine bottle), he noticed a third glass was poured. The wine was consumed in the bedroom - where the glasses were found – informing Sherlock that the bedroom was the original crime scene. This theory was supported by Sherlock's observations as he fled down the stairway of the burning building (as it was getting a little too hot for causal investigation), because he noticed the marks on the steps where the victim's shoes were scuffed in transit.

From this point it was guesswork regarding what occurred in the bedroom.

There were scratches on Daniel's hands and arms, indicating that the killer had removed her gloves. Sherlock assumed the gloves weren't the only thing removed and that Daniel was aware of the third party because of the additional wine glass. Perhaps he was under the impression he was _on the job_. Being in the porn industry, this made the accomplice the cameraman, and Moriarty's agent.

It was a tentative theory, but a working one - except, that his three prime suspects matched the killer's profile right down the DNA. Most of his collected data wouldn't help him now.

Finally - a challenge worth having.

Sherlock started with their finger nails, looking for any sign of recent trauma or residue of Daniel's skin, yet he found nothing. Next he smelt their hair to see if any of them had the scent of firewood buried within –still nothing. It was as if all three had been thoroughly cleaned before Sherlock was allowed to examine them, making things difficult - but not impossible.

Despite these set-backs, the third sister seemed the most likely to be the killer. Sherlock noticed scar tissue on her forearm and fingers. The pattern of the scarring seemed to favour burns - something an arsonist would have gained in her early days; but was he really willing to bet his life and four others on nothing but scars?

Sherlock started to pace in a circle around the suspects, his eyes freely gliding over every minute detail he could find.

Moriarty picked up on his hesitation. "_One minute Sherlock… then Watson's pretty little girlfriend breathes her last; not to mention our arsonist and her siblings give me a little **show**._"His words reverberated around the tiled walls, and suddenly the clue Sherlock was searching for fell into his hands.

It was the words that did it.

"Say that again." Sherlock paused before the second sister, staring intently into her face.

"_You'll have to be more specific; I tend to ramble… as you are no doubt aware._"

"You're going to kill the arsonist and her sisters if I don't find her out." Sherlock said slowly, watching the woman in front of him all the while. His mouth twitched as he figured it out - but he had to be sure. He moved to the third and first sister as Moriarty replied.

"_I had thought I have made my intent quite clear from the beginning_." There was a small fraction of disappointment in the man's voice, "_Thirty seconds until I demonstrate._"

Yes. He had it.

"It's this one." The detective pointed to the second sister with a smug expression tugging at his lips. The instant he said it, the woman he pointed at seemed to relax, proving Sherlock was correct.

"_Oh, bravo. Let's have it then, what gave her away?_"

Sherlock could hear the smile in Moriarty's voice, and it made his facade of confidence waver.

"Guilt. I read it in her eyes. The others were worried, scared, upset… but she was guilty; guilty that she placed her siblings in such a precarious situation." As the words came out of his mouth, he knew something was very wrong.

Moriarty started to laugh a forced cruel laugh, "_Oh yes Sherlock. Yes…_"

The blackness of the screen started to fade into a blurry video, much like a Polaroid picture. Sherlock slowly approached the laptop, his eyes trying to make out the image. It took him less than three seconds.

His stomach seemed to crawl up into his throat the moment he knew.

"_I see it now… of course._"

Dancing merrily in the frame of Moriarty's screen was a flaming object, and it was dreadfully familiar.

"You didn't…" the detective started, but couldn't finish. He knew that Moriarty wouldn't make such threat without backing it up. As he watched the simple clip repeat over and over before his eyes, his imagnation started to venture into Moriarty's realm. There were so many horrible things you could do to a hostage. Guilt, which he had so easily identified in the second sister, was now mirrored on his face – amusing Moriarty to no end.

The fire consumed a battered umbrella until all that was left was melted plastic and a twisted metal frame.

.

* * *

**Author's Note**:

Loooong chapter. Took me awhile since it's very difficult writing Sherlock's train of thought in regards to his deductions. Every time I read through some of the more mental paragraphs the flow changes. I hope I didn't lose any readers. I know things are getting strange. My Moriarty came out a little more creepy then I indended. Writing witty banter is fun though (maybe _too_ fun...), I hope I didn't go overboard. Another cliff-hanger for you - though, this time it's a little more obvious. At least I hope so. It'll all be clearer next chapter... maybe.

Please point out any grammatical issues! I tend to butcher the English language and need all the help I can get on the subject of proofreading. **Read and Review** and I'll love you forever. Questions and comments are very welcome.

I recieved so many wonderful reviews last chapter. _Summerfall_ and _iDestiny,_ you two made me smile so hard the people next to me in the computer lab thought I was some sort of maniac; and _RecycledFunk_... I'm very glad to have you aboard this particular bandwagon! Thank-you for taking the time to comment!

_Edit_: A few of you are commenting on the Boden thing. Just want to throw out there that I think Sherlock the type to order all his clothes online. I picked a store that wasn't too fancy since he's not into fashion. The reason he even said that comment earlier was to be snide regarding Moriarty's past choice of underwear. It's hilarious that you guys googled it (I had to google it in the first place).


	6. Chapter Six

**Exception to the Rule**

**.**

* * *

Chapter Six

* * *

.

The rich reds of the sheer curtains bled into the afternoon light lazily drifting through the window, lending the room a far more passionate atmosphere than the current occupants could. Sitting demurely in the corner of the restaurant, was Mycroft Holmes. He was a picture of discontentment, complete with a scowl on his face and a fork in his hand. The plate before him held a salad that filled him with more misery than sustenance, and he speared it out of spite rather than want. Across the table, his assistant was busy texting on her Blackberry; but a warm smile tugging at her lips told Mycroft she witnessed his miniature tantrum.

"You can have mine." She said simply, her eyes not lifting from the small screen as she gently slid her plate closer to her boss. The glazed duck was definitely more tantalizing, yet Mycroft's willpower made him turn away.

"That isn't the point."

The woman gave into the small smile budding on her face and glanced in Mycroft's direction. "If it helps rid the world of that frown of yours - I think you're fit. You're brother is only teasing." She went back to her phone. "Though, I don't need to tell _you_ that."

Mycroft inched the plate closer and took a bite of the duck - it tasted wonderful, as usual. At this rate his diet was never going to succeed. As if it were on the same train of thought, Mycroft reflected on his earlier meeting with Sherlock, causing the frown to return.

"Anna, do I try too hard with him? I feel he is like a finger trap; perhaps I need to pull away before our connection becomes apparent."

Anna was used to her employer needing to process his thoughts aloud. She indulged him with her usual short clipped replies, "You are asking the wrong person."

"There _is_ no right person , so I must make due with whatever resources are available." He dropped into a mental stupor, slowly devouring his companion's duck as he ruminated. It was finished before he spoke again.

"It was nice of you to suggest a night out."

Anna set her phone down on the white table cloth and folded her hands neatly onto her lap. This gesture made Mycroft straighten in his seat, since it was queer for her to give him her full attention.

"You always work yourself up into a mood after visiting your brother." The smile was knowing, but her eyes sharp. She causally placed one of her elbows on the table to prop up her head and stare at Mycroft. Her disregard for etiquette was forgotten due to the lovely silhouette it created. "I think your far too soft in that respect."

Mycroft sighed lightly and leaned back in his chair. "Love is not a weakness, it is a strength. So many do not realize…"

Anna scoffed at that, but refrained from saying what she was thinking out loud. Her employer gave her a hard look that resulted in the girl casting a submissive glance to the tabletop. To distract from the moment, she took a sip of her white wine. It didn't help. Mycroft continued.

"Emotions are the color of life my dear. You can strip the world of them and view it under a microscope like _some_, but that is like studying life from a corpse. Breath, motion, _warmth_… are lost to those who try to force order into chaos." Mycroft stared out the window, his brow deeply furrowed. "That is why he will never understand."

The woman blinked at Mycroft, surprised at how passionate he was on the subject. "I never knew you had such poetic thoughts."

"The bane of my existence. My father was a poet; you should see the letters he wrote Mummy during their courtship. Made Blake look like he was scrawling in crayon…"

"Must have been romantic."

"I wouldn't be here otherwise."

Anna grinned and went back to her phone. The conversation ended there, and after a few minutes of comfortable silence, Mycroft rose from the table and fetched his umbrella from the back of his chair. He had plenty of work to do after all.

Together the two figures headed to the exit, the bill being placed on a tab for Mycroft's department to work out later.

In his peripheral vision, Mycroft noticed that there was a man situated near the door whose eyes had followed them out of the room. A note of caution decorated the diplomat's mind and he looked to Anna to see if she had detected the same. The play of her fingers across the keyboard of her blackberry paused for a fraction of a second – she had.

The sun was on the verge of burying itself in the horizon when Mycroft sauntered into the concrete walkway, the glass doors of the restaurant swinging shut behind him. The distortion of light cast by the plum-coloured sky suited London, and left the man feeling oddly at peace. Anna was at his back, pulling up files on the man they saw in the restaurant whilst his driver pulled up gracefully to the curb. Pausing in her work, Anna opened to the door for her employer. The familiar ritual made Mycroft smirk, and he ducked into the car, waiting patiently for his assistant to join him.

"Anything of interest?"

The girl merely smiled and shook her head as she slid in after Mycroft, "The worst kind of man, writes for several red-tops… nasty work really. Don't know why he found us particularly interesting. "

"Hn," Mycroft commented, looking out the window and retreating into his mind.

Twenty minutes into the silent ride, they were travelling down the Chelsea embankment when the large white van in front of them slammed on its brakes. Several things seemed to go through Mycroft's mind simultaneously, causing him to mentally freeze as he realized a car crash was inevitable.

This had been orchestrated.

This was going to hurt.

Next to him Anna dropped her phone, a scream getting stuck halfway in her throat before she repressed it and prepared herself for the worst. The driver tried some last minute evasive maneuvers, swinging the car around so that the left side took most the damage.

Mycroft was on the right.

The sound of metal crumpling, Anna crying out in pain and the splintering of bone was the last thing Mycroft heard before his head snapped back and his vision went black.

.

The world was a kaleidoscope of light and sound. Fractured images weaved themselves into intricate patterns which Mycroft struggled to identify. His ears were ringing and he felt warm trails of blood flowing down his arm. To his right there was the broken window - a portal into chaos. Shapes blurred in and out of focus beyond the confines of the car, and to make things worse someone decided to shine a flashlight directly into his face.

He looked away, confusion and pain making everything seem to melt in his mind. His eyes ventured to the left where he was forced to draw a single breath and hold it.

The driver was dead; there wasn't enough left of his head to support life. Anna was stirring, but she was a bloody mess. Bone was visible where it escaped the skin of her forearm. Blood was gushing from the wound and Mycroft knew if she didn't get medical attention her death was inevitable. Her eyelids fluttered twice, indicating she was fighting her way back to consciousness.

Suddenly, hands gripped Mycroft from the right and he was dragged clear of the car. He didn't remember them even opening the door. He shouted at them to help his assistant, the vision of her broken in the car lodged in his mind. It efficiently rebooted his mental processes, giving him the clarity the situation desperately needed.

These men were dressed as paramedics, but he knew they were not. The Chelsea embankment was right behind the Royal Hospital, but these men arrived far too quickly. Mycroft was only unconscious for a few minutes judging by the less injured only now stumbling out of their cars. Not to mention, these medical men were completely violating standard first aid procedures.

"Let me go." He slurred feebly, surprised that he couldn't hear his own words. He struggled against the men dragging him towards an Ambulance, but they were in excellent condition and he was horribly concussed. Every movement he made identified more injuries peppering his body – a broken ankle, dislocated shoulder, sprained wrist and several broken fingers. The back doors of their get-a-way vehicle was thrown open, revealing the lack of medical equipment – supporting Mycroft's theory that this was a coordinated abduction.

They threw him unceremoniously within, earning themselves a cry of agony as he landed on his bad shoulder. The slam of the doors made Mycroft groan, since he knew he was now locked within in the gutted vehicle, at the mercy of whomever planned this. Moriarty was his first guess.

A woman was at his side in seconds, a hypodermic in her gloved hands. Mycroft tried to roll out of her reach, but she was too nimble. The needle was jabbed in his arm moments later and everything turned white.

.

Back at the car, a figure in a nice suit strolled over to the back door. With a friendly smile he peeked in as if he were taking a stroll through an interesting exhibit in at the art gallery. His eyes landed on a crippled umbrella perched next to a dying girl.

It was as if he spotted candy.

He reached out and clutched the umbrella by its lacquered handle, but when he went to pull it free, he realized it was in the death grip of the female. White knuckles refused to let the object go, making the man cock his head curiously. Turning to look at the ruined woman, he noticed her bruised and bloody eyes narrowed in on his face. There was recognition there – delighting the newcomer. With a shuddered breath she rasped out his name; it seemed like she was going to say more, but her head fell back and her body started to shudder.

The man grinned like the Cheshire cat and tugged the umbrella out of her fragile hands.

"Don't worry love, I'm certain Sherlock will save his sibling." He turned his back on the wreck and eyed his prize inquisitively. The sirens and lights that hailed the oncoming entourage of emergency vehicles began to descend upon the scene. The man took his cue to wander into the shadows, twirling the umbrella dramatically all the while.

"_I just want to know at what cost…_"

.

* * *

**Author's Note**:

This chapter made me struggle with Writer's Block. I just couldn't figure out a way to successfully kidnap Mycroft. He's too well protected (he would have to be, if he's as powerful as the Mycroft in literature then he holds all the secrets of the British government). Anna (called her that because it sounded close to Anthea. I was tempted not to give her a name at all, but it made writing far too difficult and I think that Mycroft would call her _something_) is an ex-agent of the British secret service who accepted a desk-job for personal reasons, and is Mycroft's bodyguard effectively. Couldn't figure out a way of explaining that without upsetting the flow.

Mycroft is mostly distracted this entire chapter, which made him rather ordinary. I'm not too happy with that, but I couldn't find a way around it. I made him seem like a damsel in distress…

This chapter is the set-up for Sherlock's next clue. It's also the shortest... sorry! I'll make it up to you if you **Read and Review**! _Linzabeth_, thank-you for the proof-reading! I changed everything you pointed out. The support I'm getting for this fic is phenomenal! I'm also shocked that everyone auto-jumped from burning umbrella to Mycroft in trouble. Amusing. I'll update soon! Review review **review**!


	7. Chapter Seven

**Exception to the Rule**

.

* * *

Chapter Seven

* * *

.

An attractive shade of purple dominated the area beneath Sherlock's eyes as he sat in the hospital waiting room staring dismally at a television set situated in the corner. The sick and agonizing members of London were littered around him, most clutching IV stands supporting saline drips as they mimicked his glazed stare. Like Sherlock, half of them didn't care for the flickering imagery broadcasting an interesting and lively London; to him, it was just another spot on the wall.

The last words his brother had told him replayed themselves over and over in Sherlock's mind.

_You're playing with fire_.

_You're playing with fire_.

**_You're playing with fire_****.**

He looked to his pale long fingered hands as if they had the answers he sought. It was an appropriate distraction. The red and blue networks that ran beneath his skin reminded him of the many corpses he had the pleasure of utilizing for his experiments. Moriarty just took things one step further - experimenting with lives. The puppet master – tugging strings from the shadows to watch people dance – and Sherlock was only too happy to dance.

He felt sick.

It was difficult to make Sherlock Holmes feel ill; his constitution was a medical marvel, but this… this _feeling_ was not amiable. A twisted sort of anger gnawed at his gut and chilled his mind.

Is this what _guilt_ felt like?

Lestrade sat next to Sherlock, snapping him out of his reverie. The detective hadn't noticed the man approach, and the lack of observation spooked him noticeably. Eyes focused sharply on the serious expression present on the Inspector's face, noting a weariness there that Sherlock had felt through look alone. He didn't know what to say to make Lestrade understand… to comprehend what was going on. He couldn't stop. He didn't want to. There was a fraction of him that wanted to see how far Moriarty would go – and how far he himself would go in return.

It was the same part that told him Mycroft didn't matter in the grand scheme of things; and that was what made him sick – made him just like Moriarty.

"John wants to see you."

A nerve twitched somewhere on the consulting detective's face and he looked away from Lestrade. At the mention of the doctor's name, a recent memory came to the forefront of his mind. The living room, a heavy tension - evident in the way John's hands moved as he pushed himself out of his chair and muttered '_You'd be happy together'_ with too much sarcasm and not enough eye contact. John knew he wouldn't stop - John knew him so well.

He was sick too.

"Not important. Did your team find anything of interest at the scene?"

"Lots of dead and even more scrap metal." The words came out as a sigh, but at Sherlock's irritated expression Lestrade quickly added, "It was clean Sherlock. From the looks of things, Moriarty might have a lot of people here on his pay roll... No one there saw a thing."

"Know." Sherlock corrected, staring at a nurse chatting to a janitor as if she were one example of the many corrupt dolls in the toy box belonging to Moriarty. After a moment he looked away, upset with himself for forming theories without facts. His foe had underlings in the hospital, but even he would draw the line at RN's who cut their credentials out of a cereal box. "We _know _he has people here. The Ambulance, the uniforms, they came from somewhere; even Moriarty cannot spin something from nothing. He has connections. He's showing off."

Lestrade sighed, looking at the television and frowning at the newscast depicting the scene he just left. He seemed to be debating something internally from the way he lowered his eyes and fidgeted with a button on his cuff; before Sherlock could inquire - since it obviously had something to do with him, Lestrade was shoving his hand into his coat pocket and withdrawing a scratched Blackberry.

"I did find this. It was in your brother's car before the officials wheeled it off; it belonged to his assistant. I should be handing it to the secret service – they took over this whole ordeal, but you might get more than they can out of it."

Sherlock looked over, interested but doubtful. As he eyed the phone he couldn't help but imagine what the crash must have been like. Horrific if the state of the phone was any indication - the screen had small splatters of blood streaked across it. Maybe Mycroft wasn't even alive. No, that was rubbish and he knew it; Moriarty wouldn't waste time abducting a corpse.

"Perhaps if that woman was looking out the windscreen rather than her bloody phone she would have seen this coming. It was inevitable. Mycroft would have known he was a target - yet he put himself in danger with a _girl_ in charge of his safety? He _should_ have known that this outcome was a possibility and taken precautions." Why then, was his brother driving around town with a bull's-eye practically painted on the hood of his car? It didn't make any sense.

"The secret service is having a heyday trying to find him. You have no idea the amount of footage they collected-" An arrogant groan and hard look from the detective made Lestrade shut up, "Okay, maybe you _do_ have some sort of idea… but what I was leading to was that maybe you can work together to get him back."

Sherlock sneered and attempted to make some sense out of Anna's Blackberry – if only to shut Lestrade out of his working thoughts. The interface wasn't something that he was used to and it took him a few moments to find her recent activity. The buttons were also sticky.

"There is only one way Mycroft is going to survive this, and that's if I give Moriarty what he wants."

"Which is?"

The man quirked an eyebrow at a photograph Anna took seven hours ago in a posh restaurant. It swam its way onto her screen and zoomed in on a foreign face. He was tempted to ask Lestrade who it was, but Anna answered the question herself in her recent search history. The name she had looked up made Sherlock frown. It was familiar but he couldn't remember where he heard it before. _Charles Augustus Milverton_.

"Sherlock?"

"Hn?" The man replied, distracted. Lestrade recognized the early signs of Sherlock on the hunt and leaned over.

"What did you find?"

"A clue... potentially."

With that, the detective stood up and headed for the nearest exit. Meanwhile the DI sat open mouthed back where Sherlock left him, trying to find something to shout after the man that wouldn't make him sound like a fool. In the end he couldn't come up with anything before that flashy coat disappeared around the corner and out of his mind. There was plenty of paperwork to do after all; the secret service was all over Mycroft's disappearance, but the _Eros_ case was going to take a lot of prying. Sherlock had his own trail to follow; it was time Lestrade found his.

.

The bars were a hassle, but John learned to work around them. He was a soldier after all, and after living such a life style he was ready to adapt to whatever environment he happened to be chucked into. Still, this was one of the strangest situations he had ever found himself in – even topping finding a woman's frozen nethers in the ice box.

"Straight - King high," Anderson said smugly, making Donavan cast down her hand in disgust. The laminate cards glided over the cold concrete, landing several inches away from their initial drop point on John's side.

John reached over to grab them from his position – cross legged on the floor of his cell. Over his shoulders he had a warm wool blanket that fought the chill creeping up from the ground. It slid to into his lap during the stretch, making him shiver slightly. Once he returned the cards to their playing area he gathered them up in his hands and started to shuffle.

"Time for one more hand?"

Sally shot Anderson a quick glance before making eye contact with the doctor. Both officers were sitting before him, metal preventing him from enjoying the same level of freedom. Their decision to pass their lunch breaks with him was very kind, and something John hadn't expected from either of them - especially Anderson.

"One more, then we should be getting back. The write-up for that _Eros_ incident is due on Lestrade's desk and I'm only half way through it."

The doctor nodded, solemnly dealing out the last hand. As the cards made their way around, John tried to bring up the topic of Sherlock as casually as possible. He had already heard of what happened at the night club – at least as much as the Yarders were informed (because surely Sherlock withheld most the details of his confrontation because he liked to be mysterious as well as royal pain to the authorities).

The three women he saved were acting strangely uncooperative on the subject, almost as if they were silenced. That, and during the small hours of the morning, Harry paid John a rather interesting visit, informing him that she happened to be at _Eros_ at the time and witnessed a lot of the spectacle – her current girlfriend was a victim of the crime. Her account of the ordeal was rather emotional. It made John more confused than ever.

All John knew was that something was going very wrong and it was taking a long time to get there.

"So… any sign of him?"

Donovan's face contorted into a strange combination of pity and disdain. She was an empathetic creature, and understood John's need to work out his issues with the freak; but anything to do with that man made her skin crawl. "None. Honestly, I wish he would show. I'd lock him in here and let you have a go at him - you'd have my support by the way. Aim for his face."

John laughed, but it was short and fake. "Yeah…" he started, trying to find some way to agree with the sergeant, but nothing was forthcoming. Sherlock was avoiding him and it hurt; no mask could hide it.

Sally went to pick up her cards, but stopped when she heard the sound of someone approaching. Both their heads moved to see who was coming, making John feel rather helpless from inside his cage. He was forced to wait until the figure appeared. It was Lestrade - a clear bag of clothing in his hands. John's eyes widened as he recognized the jumper sitting on top of the plastic wrapped pile.

"Those are mine," came out of the doctor's mouth before he could stop himself and in seconds he was on his feet to get a better look, causing both Anderson and Donovan to give him, then their boss, a queer expression.

"This was on my desk at noon. Walker said Sherlock dropped them off before hurrying out the door."

The look that crossed John's face made the Yarder's swell with sympathy. John didn't appreciate it.

"Any chance he packed me a steel file?"

Humor was a last resort, but it worked. The three faint grins he received in return made things a little less awkward. Lestrade opened the cell door and gestured for John to step out. "No, just a note in one of the pockets. You can use the bathroom down the hall to freshen up and change – Anderson will escort you."

For once the officer didn't complain about the task assigned to him, making John wonder if he were being thought of as a charity case. He felt like a small child, and the care package from Sherlock didn't make matters better. He stepped out of the cell, holding the clothing to him as if it were a ticket home. He followed Anderson to the bathroom and tried to pretend as if it was a normal day and he was just getting dressed for work.

All the clothing Sherlock packed him was his favorites, including his underwear; how Sherlock knew that particular was beyond John's comprehension. Hell, he didn't _want_ to know. It was a weird act of kindness on the detective's part, but that in no way made up for incarcerating him in the first place.

The note in the pocket of his jeans made John sit down on the toilet to process it properly. Written in Sherlock's peculiar scrawl were the words, "_I'm sorry"._

The apology scared him more than any mysterious cipher or Chinese torture device ever had. Sherlock rarely apologized. Something was wrong. Really wrong.

For one insane moment John thought about getting rid of Anderson, sneaking his way out of Scotland Yard, and finding Sherlock. The notion was overwhelming. He needed to threaten an explanation out of his flat mate before it was too late. He needed to know what was going on in that brilliant but misguided mind.

Sanity brushed the thoughts away and John finished his washing and dressing, emerging from the bathroom resembling the man he was before his best friend framed him for a crime he knew nothing about.

Anderson guided him back to the cell and there John sat, alone with a deck of cards.

.

Pain crawled over bone and tissue, leaving every limb aching. It took every ounce of willpower to keep from groaning as Mycroft subtly flexed every muscle he could without attracting too much attention to himself. He felt that there was a cast around his foot – neatly plastered, done by a professional. Several splints and tight bandages were around his fingers and wrist - they were done similarly, meaning he was either in the hospital or had a private doctor. Soft against his back were clean sheets - high-thread count, stretched over top of a box-spring mattress. The mattress was old by the quiet creaks caused by the slightest movement, but it was good quality – judging by the even weight distribution which had not deteriorated over time. Pulled up to his chin was a warm duvet, also freshly laundered – goose down, expensive.

He couldn't stand the oddness of it all. Mycroft opened his eyes, wondering if the luxurious accommodations could be explained better in combination with his surroundings.

The wallpaper was old-fashioned - as was the furniture. Perched nonchalantly at a table by the window, was a man Mycroft could only assume was the infamous Moriarty. The table had a platter of rich baked goods and Devonshire cream. Next to it all, a quaint tea pot was steaming gently, and upon noticing that his guest was awake, Moriarty poured what smelled like a cup of Earl Grey.

"Good afternoon Mycroft. It is good to finally meet you."

Mycroft blinked and tried to sit up, but the pain was too much. From his neck downwards was horribly stiff and sore. "Moriarty, I assume?"

The man smiled charmingly and stirred some cream and sugar into Mycroft's cup. "Sherlock described me to you hasn't he? I am quite curious as to what he would say. Handsome… fascinating... a touch of arrogance perhaps_?__" _The range of facial expressions this man could produce was entrancing_._ "No, he wouldn't be so _boring_." Like mother nattering lovingly about her child, he went on. "Tell me Mycroft, did Sherlock like to play games when he was young?"

As a captive of a mad man Mycroft decided it was in his best interests just to go along with whatever fancy Moriarty wished to partake. "He didn't get along with other children. Any games he played were solitary... and I'm not certain if he enjoyed them." Memories of a little boy playing with ants came to mind.

"How sad." The grin seemed permanent on his features, putting Mycroft under the impression that he was a man who had just won the lottery. With care, Moriarty had laid a tray for Mycroft with his tea, a scone and slice of cake balanced upon it. He set it next to him on the bed without a word. Mycroft tried again to sit up, worried that if he didn't Moriarty would take it upon himself to hand feed him. With that thought in mind the elder Holmes managed to elevate himself and accept the tray without incident.

"Thank-you," he murmured - Mycroft may be at a villain's mercy, but he still possessed some proper English etiquette. Mummy would be proud.

Moriarty seemed to find his politeness amusing. He straightened his back and returned to the window. After a few minutes of quiet contemplation, he turned back to Mycroft with a question in his eyes. "Tell me, how did Sherlock Holmes come to be?"

It was the first move in what would grow to be a complicated game of verbal chess. Mycroft took his turn by testing the boundaries of the board.

"I can see how the subject would escape you. When I man loves a woman-"

"Oh _Ha ha_ Mycroft. Very entertaining." The smile faded and there was a coldness in his face that sucked every degree of warmth out of the room. His next words were as sharp as a knife's edge, and Mycroft knew his first move had been a mistake. "Don't try my patience my dear. I've been such a _good_ boy after all."

Intimidation was a craft which Mycroft thought he possessed in bounds, but Moriarty made him quiver with just a glance. Just what sort of man did his little brother attract? Something in him was not human.

The man's charming smile returned once he realized he had made his point. "My true colours are somewhat _darker_, so forgive me if I don't seem myself today. I ask again, tell me about Sherlock's origins – I am very curious."

Mycroft thought back to the conversations Sherlock and he once had, and frowned in consideration. "It is a topic I haven't given much thought. His superior intellect is genetic; yet, as to our specific brand of genius - our grandmother was a painter and some say art in the blood can take on the strangest forms…" It was odd how quiet Moriarty went when all his attention was pin-pointed on one thing. It reminded him eerily of his brother. "However, Sherlock's interest in all things criminal was more of a personal choice."

"You are like him then?" The question was lightly phrased, and Mycroft didn't know if it was beneficial to say yes or no.

"We both observe and deduce quite well, if that is what you mean, but with noticeable differences between methods." Honesty was the best policy at this point.

Moriarty's interest was peaked and he swiveled around to plant himself on a wooden chair. He sat on it backwards like some misguided adolescent. It didn't seem in character, making Mycroft wonder just how unpredictable this man could be. "Really? _Show me…_"

Mycroft looked away, sighing heavily as he did so. He had been sleeping for hours but he already felt tired. He went through the usual song and dance with little energy.

"You were once a teacher, though that was over a decade ago. You are a proper genius, youngest of your graduating class and most probably the brightest. You came from a wealthy family… but they weren't always so. Sometime in the last twenty years that turned around. If I had to hazard a guess it would be in your adolescent years. You also intend to ask my brother to join you in your reign of terror, but it is my regret to inform you that he will decline and you will be forced to kill him."

There was the customary silence that seemed to follow a Holmes deduction, but the usual praise was wanting.

"Hn. I expected better… but I suppose that was an _adequate_ demonstration." He stood up again, making Mycroft note that he couldn't keep still for very long. "Didn't think you'd pick up the fact I was a _professor _though, even Sherlock hadn't managed to uncover that little secret of my past. What gave it away? Oration?"

"The way you leaned against the table earlier; instinctive - arms straight, but your backside hovered over the edge as if purposely avoiding it. Only teachers have that habit, it's bred out of too much intimate contact with a chalkboard. Since most schools have replaced their boards with white boards in the last ten years, it was a safe to assume that you were trained and had that occupation over a decade ago."

The man grinned, "I see. _Neat_. Well, I suppose that concludes our little meeting. It was nice to chat. I'll send in Nancy with some morphine for you - those wounds of yours must _hurt_." The way he scrunched up his face at the thought of pain interested Mycroft. "I recommend that you rest. You'll be moved in a few hours and I want you as fit as can be."

"Would I be incorrect if I were to assume you didn't want to bargain with damaged goods, and that is why you've cared for me?"

"Exactly. Glad you've understood."

Mycroft leaned back into his pillows. "I didn't want to mistake this kindness for something genuine. It would have been most foolish of me."

Moriarty laughed as he exited the room, "I like you Mycroft - pity I might have to kill you." His chuckles ended on a cruel note as the door snapped shut behind him.

.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

Next chapter will be more action filled I swear! The writing this time round was crap due to so much school/work... I'm so sorry. I'm going to have to go back and re-do this _and_ the last chapter before I'm happy. At least this one was super long! Yay! Three perspectives! None of which were particularly interesting... but they were necessary in my eyes. I feel really bad for John. His time to shine will be chapter nine.

You might have noticed that Moriarty is a lot more tame with Mycroft. There isn't the energy there that is between Sherlock and him - I wanted to emphasize that. Mycroft feels like a pig being fattened for slaughter by the way, I was hoping to convey it in a nice manner.

Please **Read and Review!** I'm worried I lost some of my readers... but I can see why. The quality has taken a dive I think. Point out any glaring errors! I know there are TONS, this is one of those chapter's I didn't give a damn about proof-reading (thanks again _Linzabeth_, I love you T-T. I bet you have a whole page of edits for me this time.)**  
**


	8. Chapter Eight

**Exception to the Rule**

**.**

* * *

Chapter Eight

* * *

.

The apartment felt bare, as if it were stripped of all colour. Dust motes danced softly in dying sunbeams, falling on the open books and newspaper clippings that littered every available surface. Hiding amongst the debris was Sherlock Holmes, curled up on the sofa with John's laptop on his knees. It was obvious from the dark circles beneath his eyes that the detective hadn't slept; despite this, he stared at the screen with rapt attention. An e-mail currently displayed puzzled him.

"_Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes, in response to your earlier e-mail, you already have an appointment scheduled with Mr. Milverton at 8:30pm. Did you wish to reschedule? - Sincerely, Yvonne Knowles._"

It was from Charles Milverton's secretary at _The Daily Star_. He had sent her a letter earlier that morning, stating he wished to have a private meeting with the infamous man - and yet there was a meeting already planned. On one hand, it meant that Sherlock was on the right track; but on the other, it meant that Charles was in control of the situation. There was another round of the game approaching, and Sherlock didn't know if he was ready.

The British Secret Service had contacted him as soon as the sun rose, asking if he would be willing to assist them in finding Mycroft. Reluctantly he had dropped by their offices to see what information they had (he was going out to the Yard anyway), but left after a couple hours when he realized it was an elaborate blind. It was obvious Moriarty had this planned meticulously to give the secret service a wild goose chase that would last days if necessary. If Sherlock wanted his brother he was going to have to play by Moriarty's rules.

Sherlock was fine with that. The Yard was distracted by the _Eros_ case, the Secret Service had their hands full with Mycroft missing, and Sherlock shielded John the moment he knew that Moriarty wanted to play. It was now just Sherlock and Moriarty - wit versus cunning.

Perfect.

At seven Sherlock stirred from the sofa and took a shower. The water cleared his mind and prepared him for his next task. This Milverton fellow was sure to lead him to another confrontation with Moriarty, since he was the public's connection with the underworld. He was also London's most successful blackmailer – the man with access to all the skeletons hanging in every debutante's closet and every politician's darkest secret. A powerful man, especially when employed by Britain's most popular tabloid.

Sherlock dressed casually and slipped on his familiar coat. It felt strange to be setting out on a mission without John following close behind. He had been doing this job for years on his own, yet _now_ it just felt... wrong. There were some things in life Sherlock could never understand – and that was one of them.

He rested his hand on the door handle, looking pensive while Miss Hudson came up behind him.

"Are you all right love?"

Sherlock turned around and gave her a small smile. "I'm not certain, but I wouldn't fret about it Miss Hudson."

"Did you find that American boy's laptop? He was a very cute chap... might give John some competition you know." She winked, teasing as she slid past and opened the door. Sherlock could tell from the slight swelling of her purse that she was out to do the shopping – she liked to bring her own bags.

"No… I've been busy trying to clear the good doctor's name." He followed her out, glad for the company even if it was only for a moment.

Miss Hudson nodded seriously, "We all know he wouldn't hurt a fly. Will you be back late? I can leave you a bowl of my homemade beef stew if you're going to be peckish when you return."

Sherlock recalled the memory of the dying cabbie - John's bullet lodged in his chest. Harmless wasn't a word used to describe the doctor. "Yes, I will be - Thank-you."

"Not a problem at all. Just don't expect me to do it often; I'm not your housekeeper." She toddled off in the direction of the market, leaving Sherlock on his own to hail a taxi. For some reason, he felt better.

.

The _Daily Star_'s headquarters was designed by an architect that was more artist than engineer. Everything was aesthetically pleasing, yet mentally frustrating. It took Sherlock several minutes upon approach to make out anything that resembled an entrance. The veil of night made the task more difficult, but he managed to stroll up to the glass doors and slip inside like a ghost. The receptionist in the main lobby didn't hear him approach, and when his dark shadow loomed over her, she squeaked in fright and dropped her pen.

In a moment of wide-eyed fear Sherlock noticed that her cosmetics were applied with exceptional skill – high social status. Expensive colour contacts and co-ordinated business suit indicated that she was married to someone in a high position. Hand was bare, so _not_ married - long time boyfriend. She was high maintenance and he was insecure - the photo of them on her desk told him far mare than he ever wanted to know.

"Sherlock Holmes. 8:30."

"O-oh," She recovered slowly – indicating low intelligence. Sherlock's eyebrow twitched in irritation but she replied before he could complain. "Please wait a moment; I'll call up to see if he's ready."

Before she could reach for the intercom, it buzzed and a very confident male voice came from the speaker. "Don't bother Josie, I'm available."

Something so simple sent Sherlock into defensive mode. Milverton must be watching a camera somewhere, indicating that he had been waiting patiently for him to arrive. The tone was strong, in control. Sherlock looked to the receptionist with a questioning look; she was surprised that her employer had super ceded her action, indicating that Sherlock was indeed getting the special treatment.

"Tenth floor?"

It was one of three floors that still had lights on, and the uppermost in that category. It was a guess, but from Josie's shocked expression it was a lucky one.

"Yes… Janice will escort you when you arrive."

Sherlock gave a curt nod and entered the elevator, lightly tapping the tenth floor before watching the doors close around him. He had debated taking the stairs, but ambushing him in an elevator didn't seem like Moriarty - or this Milverton character. It was best to reserve his energy for whatever dastardly plot was ahead of him.

The doors opened suddenly, revealing a man wearing a ridiculous fur shawl over an expensive pin-stripe suit. His skin was slightly tanned from travel, but fading - meaning he's been in town for at least two weeks, but somewhere south for longer. Sherlock only caught a glimpse of an old gold wristwatch before the man slipped into the elevator and put a hand around Sherlock's shoulder.

The detective ducked the moment the man's arm made contact and twirled gracefully to the other side of the elevator. "None of that Mr. Milverton. We are on different sides of the playing field and I don't wish to be sabotaged before the game begins."

"So _suspicious_!" His voice was deeper than his intercom let on. He recovered from Sherlock's dodge by pressing the button immediately below the main floor – B1. "Our mutual acquaintance told me you don't like being touched. You are quite the delicate little flower, aren't you?" His eyes only took in the pale complexion and thin frame.

Sherlock smirked, looking the man up and down. Small stain of candle wax on his sleeve – red. Two pinpricks of sauce on his chest where a cloth napkin transferred some of its contents – faint smell of curry, nearly downed out by the smell of lavender. It wasn't a normal scent for a man of Charles' background to use – probably employed to mask the smell of indigestion.

"I'm not the one using floral toiletry."

Charles chuckled, "Good nose, good nose."

"Good eyes too. Your date doesn't know a good Thai place. Next time try the Thai Orchid; Rama's has the worst _Kaeng phet pet yang_ in London - you would have been better off with the seafood stir-fry. There are also some antacids in the vending machine outside your lobby – If you need them."

The man stared blankly at Sherlock, making the detective hold back a smug grin from his features. The elevator doors opened up into a large underground parkade, and there was a lonely limo a few yards away.

"I bet you think you're some sort of magician, but those trick of yours don't fool me."

Sherlock took the first step out of the elevator, showing his back to his enemy out of arrogance. To add to the egotistical act, he ignored the statement and gestured towards the fashionable vehicle with a wave of his hand, "After you."

The roles were reversed and Milverton knew it. Mentally, Sherlock held the man in thrall. He had assumed that the pale detective wasn't a threat, but that was far from the truth. To a man whose entire enterprise was based on information, Milverton knew Sherlock's talents were a powerful weapon. Charles took the lead and opened the back door of the limousine.

"Time to descend into the rabbit hole Mr. Holmes." Milverton struggled to regain his composure. Sherlock eyed the dark vehicle as if weighing his options, assuming that the man's cryptic words were some sort of literary reference that went over his head; the frequency he encountered them were disconcerting.

"What is the point?"

Milverton cocked his head, "To save your brother's life of course."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow as he stood rooted to the spot. "How?"

"So many questions; though, I suppose we should get this out of the way… it would be a waste of my time and energy if in the end you backed out. Just how far are you willing to go to save the life of your brother?"

"Depends."

A toothy smile popped out of the man's face. "My, you are a heartless bastard aren't you? This is going to be interesting. Moriarty thinks you'd be willing to sacrifice your greatest asset, but I'm starting to think he might be wrong about you…"

"People often are." Sherlock looked back to the limo. "So, where are we going?"

Milverton reigned in his smile as he slipped into the car first - as if letting Sherlock see for himself it wasn't dangerous. "A party. My kind of party."

Sherlock sighed and followed the blackmailer, surprised to find it was just the two of them in the well-lit interior. As soon as the door shut behind him, Milverton signalled the driver to start the engine and they left the vicinity of the building in silence.

The ride was short and filled with half-started conversations on the part of Milverton, since Sherlock wasn't in the mood to talk. He was wondering what Moriarty meant by his _greatest asset_

.

They arrived in a shady portion of town that Sherlock often frequented in disguise to get information that was usually out of reach to the authorities. His favourite crack house was only two streets down – though he hadn't been there since Mycroft increased his security status.

The two figures stepped out of the car and into the frigid and foul air that was churned up by the industrial zones choking out the low-income housing. A few destitute faces looked their way due to the presence of the limo, but their more informed pimps kept them in line and cleared the area. Apparently Milverton was an important man in these parts.

The pair headed to a run-down looking warehouse off of the Thames. Their clothing made them stick out against the dirty and dilapidated surroundings around them. Sherlock slowly revolved as he strolled by his escort's side, talking in everything he thought of use. Four boats in dock, five people working them – though uninterested in their approach - so they knew of Milverton. He noted to investigate this area more thoroughly in the future – if he had one. Things seemed to be getting progressively sticker for him… and without John or Lestrade to back him up he was going to have to be more cautious.

"Is Mycroft here?" he inquired, his eyes roaming the large debris littering the property – if he was going to run for it, it was wise to figure out an escape route with the most amount of cover.

"Of course not." Milverton said simply as he made his way to an entrance flooded with light from a sodium lamp.

The warehouse was stacked floor to ceiling with lumber and other building materials. The lighting was bright, but the heating was non-existent. In silence the two men slowly made their way over to another door in the distance – steel, but low quality. Their footfalls sounded louder than they should of, giving the whole scene an ominous feel. Sherlock shook it off as he concentrated on locating any additional exits should he require them. There were only two.

The second door led them to a darkened room with a poker table and three burly men eyeing each other with varied expressions. When Milverton arrived they gave him a quick look, and then turned their attention to Sherlock. Immediately he assessed them as muscle men – the sort of minions that were all brawn but no brain. Sure enough, they just served as 'gate guardians' to yet another doorway, waving the two of them through as if they were goods on a sparsely populated assembly line.

The new door led to a set of stairs that descended into a hazy cloud of smoke and noise. Sherlock could identify three different types of tobacco and a few illegal substances. The song whispering in the background escaped him – but the sound of a billiard game didn't. This was the destination.

Stepping down into the lively atmosphere was like stepping into the first level of hell. Everything stopped as a dozen dark eyes searched out his figure from the toxic miasma and recognized his aquiline face – and he theirs. It was every criminal that had ever slipped his net, not to mention a few small fry who managed to make bail. The look in their eyes seemed to set his hair on end; it wasn't anger or spite… but _hunger_.

A woman in black, perched like a cat on a barstool, laughed breathlessly at the sight of him. "Hello _Daniel_, welcome to the Lion's den. We've been waiting." She had an accent that was hard to place.

"Matilda. How many husbands is it now… three? Four?" Sherlock commented dryly, wondering if he should run now while they were all still unprepared.

"Twelve actually. I had to move to Sweden to get out from under your magnifying glass… but I wouldn't miss your initiation for the world!"

Milverton guided the detective past the woman and towards a round table in the corner sporting a pyramid of empty shot glasses; across its center was a thin red line painted in lipstick. He pulled out a chair and beckoned Sherlock to sit in it, but the man refused, drawing his coat instinctively closer to his body. He was still trying to figure out what Matilda meant by _initiation_.

The sheer amount of attention he was getting was overwhelming. It was like they were all waiting for something to happen - something involving him.

"Why am I here Milverton?" He felt like a circus animal on parade.

"I told you. To save your brother, the method is a bit peculiar, but it'll be entertaining for the boys."

Sherlock gave the shot glasses a quick glance. "What sort of game is this?"

A few of the roughest looking villains drew closer to the pair, horrible grins bisecting their faces. Sherlock assessed them each in turn, mentally recording their weaknesses and strengths. He noted quickly that he wouldn't make it back to the stairs in one piece if he decided to play the hard way. Only, it wasn't like Moriarty to put Sherlock in a situation where he would have to resort to that option.

It was the only reason he let himself be dragged into this.

Milverton sat down causally on a wooden chair and leaned back. "Oh, it's a spectator sport mainly, for the benefit of all present. Your fan proposed it, and who was I to turn down such a brilliant idea?" He plucked a shot glass from the table and examined it lovingly. "You have a lot of enemies down here Mr. Holmes - oh yes" He looked cross-wise at Sherlock, "enemies who would _love_ to see you dragged through the muck."

Sherlock frowned, "How does Mycroft fit into all this?"

The glass made a sharp _clack_ as it was placed back onto the table.

"For every ounce of delicious poison we sip, there is one tank of propane placed in the basement of a quaint little house in the country. The fun part is… your brother happens to be sleeping peacefully in a bedroom on the second floor. At 11 pm, my pal Cobra is going to strike a match and set this particular house on fire." His eyes glittered, amused at the slow look of comprehension widening Sherlock's eyes.

"However… every shot _you_ take…" He tipped the empty glass, letting it roll off the table and hit the carpeted floor. "Removes one of the propane tanks – giving the authorities more time to find the man before he's nothing but ash."

Sherlock tried to hide his emotions from his face, but the task was difficult considering how out of his depth he felt. "You're telling me… I have to out drink _everyone_ here?" It was a dozen to one; even with his superior constitution, he wouldn't be able to process that much alcohol and survive.

"That's the game Sherlock. You're free to leave of course… but then you won't need to dig a grave for Mycroft Holmes; the crater we'll make should be deep enough."

So this is what Moriarty wanted. Sherlock was going to have to sacrifice his mind in order to save Mycroft. It was barbaric… messy even. Something seemed off.

The detective walked over to the bar and frowned at his selection. He was going to have to play if he wanted Mycroft to have chance to walk out of this situation alive. His eyes avoided the fancy spirits, if we was going to be consuming copious amounts of poison and hoping to live for more than a few hours, it was going to have to be something with no sugar content. "That bottle over there…" Sherlock pointed to a dark container perched on a wine shelf in the corner. "_Pinot Noir_ if my eyes don't deceive me. Would I be allowed to use it for my shots?" He looked to Milverton for approval.

"Shots of _wine_ Sherlock? Classy… real classy…" Matilda said from her stool with an undignified snort.

Sherlock agreed that it definitely wasn't the most elegant beverage to have to guzzle like a sailor on shore leave; but it was only 13% compared to most of the hard liquor being served, giving Sherlock an early advantage. It was also the driest red wine he knew off the top of his head - meaning healthier in the long run.

"Fine Sherlock. I'll start with some brandy… Adelbert, what will you have?" Milverton said, turning to someone behind him.

A handsome man with dark hair picked up one of the shot glasses and took it to the bar. "Whiskey."

Others joined Adelbert at the bar, knocking back various shots and setting them on one side of the red-lined table with a cruel sneer. Sherlock quickly added up their first rounds – six ounces. At this rate he'd be unconscious by round four.

A woman with a nest of blonde hair fetched the wine bottle and poured Sherlock six flutes of the substance. The detective noticed that she moved with a sort of grace that wasn't common among criminals. Her face said status, and her expression was sharp. She wasn't a pawn, and yet he noticed she moved at the beck and call of the man called Adelbert. A girlfriend then, someone unaccustomed to the lifestyle of a criminal.

She perceived Sherlock's stare and gave him a faint smile. The colour of her lipstick was the same shade as the waxy line drawn onto the table. There was also a tremor of apology in those lips - She had morals. Now what was a creature with morals and dignity doing in a group of crooks?

"Take your time Sherlock." Milverton carolled from the back, just as two more members of the party placed their glasses on the round table.

It was now or never. "Just keep pouring. I'm not going to stop." He told the girl, making her recoil slightly. "I would suggest fetching a second bottle now or you'll throw off my pacing."

"A-All right." She stammered as she went to the shelf and found a second bottle. The crowd whistled and jeered at Sherlock's nerve. It reminded him of when he joined the boxing club back in university. The woman uncorked both bottles to prepare for Sherlock's speed and started to pour.

Sherlock took the first shot in two portions, trying to pass the liquid quickly through his mouth so he wouldn't be overwhelmed by taste; but at the same time, buying time for his digestive system. The man had his vices, but alcohol was not one of them.

The second was in the same style; then the third, and the fourth.

The entire process was slow, yet steady. Six shots took him a little under a minute. When he got to ten he paused and took the time to place his spent glasses on the other side of the lipstick lined table, using the short walk to judge his progress. He repeated the same test at fifteen, a slight wobble in his stride becoming present. He wondered when was the last time he ate something - the wine was hitting him harder then it should.

It was after the twentieth glass when he was forced to sit down, else he would fall down.

The table was 32 to 26 when Sherlock questioned if he could take anymore. It had only been half an hour yet the wine was sitting sourly in his gut and he was certain he was going to throw up in the next few seconds. The woman with the red lipstick was trying to move his fingers so that they'd clasp another glass.

"Come on Mr. Holmes… you've only just dipped into the second bottle." Sherlock wondered in the concern he detected in her voice was genuine or influenced by the wine. He took the glass offered and grimaced. He was definitely going to empty his stomach all over the counter if he didn't get to a bucket or something equally suitable in ten seconds. The shade of green he turned made his company double up in amusement.

He stopped their hysterics by turning and heaving onto the shoes of the closest enemy – which happened to be Milverton. As soon as he realized what he had done, laughter bubbled up his scorched throat.

"S-sorry about that." He grinned sloppily. He wondered if it mirrored the expression John had coming up the stairs two nights ago… "Actually… I'm _not _sorry - we both know that. Lying just seems _cheap_… like those shoes of yours."

Everyone turned frightfully cold as if Sherlock had just insulted each of their mothers. Tension was palpable and Sherlock wondered if Milverton's shoes were some sort of deity among these people. The thought made another chuckle escape his lips and he tried to keep control of his thoughts, lest they amuse him too much and he ended up giggling like John at a crime scene.

The girl serving the wine looked terrified as Milverton eyed Sherlock with a brand of malice usually found on murderers and mad men. "Moriarty said I wasn't allowed to kill you… but he said nothing about breaking you."

The detective rolled his eyes, clinging to the counter for support despite the fact he was sitting down. "Oh come now, vomiting is only _natural_. The game. It's all about the game Charlie… nothing else. Not you… not me, not bloody _shoes _that you bought at the flea market last year. The vendor mark is still on the side of the sole… the acid should _help_ Charlie. Here I thought you had some semblance of _taste_. Actually I didn't… the _gig_ was up when I saw the fur."

Two ruffians picked Sherlock up by the scruff of his coat. In a strangely fluid motion the man slipped out of the garment and backed up so that his back was facing the wall. "Now now… the _game_ gentlemen. I have a brother to save."

"You ain't going to be saving anyone Sherlock Holmes." Someone said as they rushed Sherlock and punched him in the gut.

Winded, the detective fell to his knees and gagged. Cherry coloured undigested wine splattered the floor and coated his hands; the design it made was actually quite pretty - like a dove. It was at this point Sherlock knew he was going to be in for a world of hurt, but he didn't understand why or how. Everything seemed so far away, and he was _tired_. Tired of games - of being nothing but a puppet on a string.

He didn't flinch as someone slammed his head back against the wall and wrapped their hands around his throat. Sherlock's assailant was a construction worker by day, 'cooker' by night – Methamphetamine by the smell of brake fluid and cat litter under his nails. Why he cared about the man's occupation at this point in time was beyond him. Maybe it explained how they managed to pick him up off the floor by sliding him up the wall by only his neck.

Sherlock spluttered, trying to get some air in his lungs. He clawed at the arm that held him, but his brain knew better. He wasn't going to win. Why bother?

His eyes rolled back, catching a fuzzy glimpse of the clock – 11:02pm. His brother was in a burning building somewhere – five tanks of propane ready to go up in an explosion that would rend him limb from limb.

The last thought crawling through his inebriated mind was a question to Moriarty. This couldn't have been how the game was supposed to end. Too flawed - not enough sophistication for a man of Moriarty's taste. Something went wrong. What was the villain going to do when he realized his pawns had broken his favourite toy?

The thought was comforting. Sherlock smiled to himself as a sickening twist to his arm made him gasp in pain. His elbow was _not_ supposed to bend that way. He was about to choke out something on the subject, when a sharp blow to the head had Sherlock spiralling into unconscious.

.

* * *

**Authors Note:**

Longest chapter by far... I wanted to have everything to do with Milverton in one chapter, but I didn't realize that I could natter on so. The errors peppering this chapter must number in the hundreds. Poor Sherlock, he's not doing to well. His intelligence took a dive as soon as he locked up his blogger. Serves him right! The next chapter is going to be epic... I've been looking forward to writing it for a long while. We're slowly approaching the end I think. Ten chapters... twelve at the most (need an even number).

It's really late. My brain is dead. I'm worried that the end of this chapter sucks because I wrote it in this condition. May change it once I get a good night's sleep. Couldn't keep this from you all over night though.

Thank-you for all the reviews! They keep me going... without them I would just let this sucker die like most my other fics (seriously, I'm cruel like that. There's evidence). Please **Read and Review!**


	9. Chapter Nine

**Exception to the Rule**

.

* * *

Chapter Nine

* * *

.

It was the dying moans that John Watson couldn't stand, not the sound of bullets hitting dirt or bombs rendering buildings to rubble. He could take the battlefield and the chaos that defined it, but when there was blood and shredded flesh to work with, everything adopted a sharpness which bit into his resolve. He remembered the smell of cauterized muscle and the feel of being wrist deep in a man's abdomen. He recalled how confused he was when his patient was still breathing yet the his intestines looked like the inside of a meat grinder. He was wondering if he should use what little morphine he had left to ease the soldier's passing, when strange words warbled into his head.

"_You can't be serious! The man might be thrown into the Thames with cement shoes and you're busyin' about with a prisoner?_"

It was a woman arguing. What was a woman doing on a battlefield?

In a daze John blinked, finding his surroundings falling away into a foreign darkness he couldn't immediately recognize.

"He's not a prisoner, he's a friend of Holmes," came the voice of Lestrade outside of John's cell. The jingle of keys made the doctor sit up and rub his face. The woolen blanket that embraced him while he slept fell to the floor.

"What's all this then...?" He mumbled, looking from the Detective Inspector to the light-haired woman at his side. She didn't look pleased at all to be there, and her dress was casual streetwear which made John wonder at her purpose here at the yard.

"If you're a friend of 'olmes, then you tell me! That fellow came into my boyfriend's place lookin' like a sheep being led to slaughter." The story seemed to burst from her mouth unbidden. Her voice carried down the hall making several people poke their heads down the corridor. "'e got into a bad fight and was carried off... but I felt bad for the guy. I recognized 'is name from some of the newspaper clippin's my beau likes to pin up an' figured that 'e was Lestrade's man." She glared at the inspector with fire in her eyes. "Yet I'm bein' treated like a bloody criminal; and 'ere I was tryin' to be 'elpful!"

John stared at the woman, "What do you mean '_carried off_'? By who and to _where_?"

"I don't know, but I can guess."

Lestrade sighed angrily, "Now see here, we can't afford another wild goose chase - and I know the company you keep Ms. Winter. I don't buy that you're here because you _feel_ like being a Good Samaritan."

"That man didn't deserve what 'e got! I saw 'im all a thither when they 'eld 'is brother's fate over 'is 'ead; it wasn't decent. I knew Adelbert didn't 'ave anything to do with it really. I don't want this to dirty 'is name if that bloke crops up dead. It's that Milverton fellow's idea. I don't want my Adelbert involved, _that's all!_"

John shook his head, still confused. "Detective Inspector... is there a reason you're outside my cell... with... err..."

"Kitty, Kitty Winter." She said, breaking from her usual tirade to show some proper manners.

Lestrade looked uncomfortable. "Well, Miss Winter burst in on a confession by a Mrs. Roberts who admitted to the murder of Daniel Wilkins. Apparently Holmes swore her to secrecy, promising some legal assistance if she held off turning herself in; but there have been some recent attempts against her life and those of her sisters that loosened her tongue a little early."

"Isn't that illegal?"

"Oh yes. Sherlock Holmes will be replacing you in that cell the moment we lay hands on him. I was hoping you'd help now that you're a free man."

"Gladly... but he got himself into trouble? Well... more trouble than usual?" John turned back to Miss Winter.

"The Marrow brother's were sent to dispose of Mr. 'olmes last I knew. I excused myself just as they were leavin'. They headed east down the Thames... towards the docks. We're wastin' time; you'll never catch them up now."

John left his cell in a rush, passing Lestrade and Winter like a man on a mission. "We should split up, cover more ground. What do these brothers look like?"

Kitty Winter jogged to catch up - glad that someone was taking the initiative. "Ugly fellows; balding, stocky in build, brown moustaches and dark trench coats mostly - nasty type. What'd your friend do to piss off Milverton?"

"I have no idea. You have a car?" John asked suddenly, realizing that chasing down thugs in the dark was going to rack up when hell of a cab bill. It was that or cruise around in a police car with Lestrade alerting everyone that they were looking for mischief.

"Yeah, you coming with me? I'm not a fan of the DI..." Kitty offered.

Lestrade huffed. "Feeling's mutual _sweetheart_, that man of yours has a rap sheet longer then the Thames - and you're a fool not to believe it."

"Wrong place, wrong time!" She snapped back, making John roll his eyes.

They split up outside of the yard, but not before Lestrade caught John's shoulder and held him up as Kitty kept walking. "Look, John, this woman isn't on our side of the fence. For all I know she could be a part of whatever the hell is going on around here. I need you to be vigilant. I'm going to try the squeezing some information out of my informants on the street while you stick to Winter like glue. You have my number?"

"Sherlock added it last week…" John started, about to comment on the fact that he worked with Sherlock enough to know that danger could be found in the most innocent of things, but he was interrupted.

"Good, put it on speed dial in case of trouble." He patted John's shoulder before talking off towards his cruiser without another word. John stood there in a mild daze before he heard Kitty shout at him from behind. "Oi, _you_, we're runnin' out of time you know?"

She was leaning out of the window of an expensive looking Austin-Healey. It was blue and for some reason John got a bad impression from it. He jogged over to the passenger side and got in.

"We need to stop off at my place first. 221B Baker Street."

Kitty looked irritated, "Are you sure you have the time for a bloody pit stop?"

"Baker Street _please_." He clicked his seat belt into place, wary about a few of the dents he spotted on the outside of Kitty's car. It was a wise decision on his part, for the woman gunned it out of her parking space faster then most get-a-way vehicles John had seen. Her speed was impressive, if not a bit frightening, and he had his hands on his gun in less than ten minutes.

.

The slow drag through the darkest and most unpleasant streets of London did nothing to keep John's imagination from running wild with the thousand of horrible ways he could find his flatmate dead. Soon that was replaced with even darker thoughts; if Moriarty was truly the face behind this latest string of unpleasantries, then he might find his friend in a state _worse_ than death - for Moriarty seemed like a man who liked to play with his food before he ate it.

The passing sodium street lamps sent an intermittent light rolling over the surfaces of Kitty's car. The soft orange glows made the scenery appear unnatural, making the doctor anxious. John tried to keep his eyes on the sidewalks, searching for anything that would lead him to Sherlock, but he caught the reflection of his face in the window. He did a double take; his lips had set themselves into a hard line, and his eyes looked hollow. He knew that face - it was the expression that met wounded soldiers on the battlefield, and the face that would meet Sherlock if he wasn't careful.

"So… you an 'im, friends or _friends_?" Kitty Winter blurted unexpectedly, causing John to whip his face around and stare at her incredulously.

"Colleagues… just _colleagues_." His tone had a sharpness in it that made the driver raise her eyebrow.

"Really?" She flashed a smile that was a little mischievous, "Why, I'd have liked a _colleague_ who'd jump to my rescue with a gun and everythin' at a moments notice."

"You don't know Sherlock, he can be-" John froze, his eyes locking on something familliar. "**STOP!** There! Back-up a bit… down the alleyway…" John pointed to a man who was smoking a cigarette down a particularly narrow lane. He was leaning against the old brickwork, his figure half out of the light.

As Kitty reversed slowly, John ripped off his seatbelt and vaulted from the car. The man in the alleyway dropped his cigarette and made to run into the darkness but John pulled out his gun and with the speed of a trained soldier, levelled it at the man. "Move and I shoot."

There was a moment of hesitation before the man moved and John shot.

One clear hit to the back of his calf sent the victim sprawling forward into the grit of the alleyway. John advanced, covering the only exit to the street. His eyes roamed over his target as Kitty ran up behind him a panicked expression.

"Just what the 'ell do you think you're doin' shootin' guys in the middle of the street!" Obviously Kitty thought she was in the company of a lunatic.

John's arm didn't waver as he kept his gun pointed at his target, "He's wearing Sherlock's coat. I can spot that coat anywhere… and it's definitely _his_ coat." He knelt next to the fallen man and grabbed him by his greasy hair. With one rough movement the doctor yanked his head up and looked into the man's grime-streaked face, "Where did you get this coat?"

The man said nothing, and the door to John's left opened making him whip his arm around to play defensive - but not before smashing his target's face into the ground in order to daze him. Suddenly two men entered the scene, fitting Kitty's earlier description of the Marrow brothers.

"Who the hell are you?" The taller one asked, eyeing John's gun with contempt. He was a big fellow, with eyes like steel.

"Where is Sherlock Homes?"

Now that the doctor's reason for being there had been decalred, the taller Marrow brother smiled cruelly. This was nothing but a business transaction with Marrow having the goods and Watson the need for those goods. The thug cracked his knuckles and tried to make himself more intimidating. "Who wants to know?"

"I do. Tell me." John wasn't rattled by scum; he knew he had the advantage.

"No."

Marrow went to withdrew something from the inside of his coat and the doctor shot him in the shoulder without hesitation. He fell like a sack of bricks and howled the entire time. His shorter brother was startled and went to check on his sibling but John's gun was suddenly in his face.

"That was a bad answer on your brother's part. Don't make me repeat myself."

Blood blossomed freely from the wound in the fallen man's shoulder. The sight visibly affected the shorter Marrow brother and he started to sweat. "You killed him… he's gunna bleed out like that you _fucked up psycho_!"

"If you don't tell me where Sherlock Holmes is, both of you will be bleeding out in this alleyway." He paused to let his words sink in. "On the other hand, I am a doctor - I have some experience on shoulder injuries too. They hurt a lot. Not as much as a shot to the groin I suspect though…" He lowered his gun several inches and the man's face warped into one of understanding.

"All right, _all right_! We dropped him off at the old chemical plant on Flaherty. He was alive when he left him… not sure about now."

"Did you deliever him to Moriarty?"

"No... who the hell is _Moriarty_? We just dumped him in the storm drain-"

Marrow was interrupted by a shot to the foot. The brute jumped once, spraying blood everywhere before sending himself flying backwards to land hard on his backside. He shuttered in agony, but it didn't stop him from yelling, "What did you go and do that for!"

John didn't answer as he turned around to his first victim, who was still groaning in the filth of the alleyway with his leg bleeding. He stripped the man of Sherlock's coat and brushed it off a few times before he grabbed Kitty and pushed her towards her car. "Come on, we need to get to that plant."

"You just shot all three of them…" Her voice was faint and she entered her car in a sort of a trance.

"Someone will have heard the shots and sent the authorities. They'll all live." That was more then he could say for Sherlock - who might all ready be dead. John tried not to think of what he'd find at the chemical plant and focused instead on getting there. In the front seat Kitty started the car and tried not to shake. John realized that he probably seemed as bad as those idiots in the alley. He tried to soften his expression, but he found he couldn't; he was so filled with anger and adrenaline, and his only outlet at the moment was his military training.

"It was necessary to shoot them Kitty. Now they can't follow us and they'll be more concerned with their injuries than with sending someone after us."

"I-I know, you just seemed a different person is all…" She focused on the road as John stared at his gun, wondering if Sherlock would be alive by the end of this nightmare. The powder burns on his hand made the fierceness of his face fade a fraction as his mouth twitched into a very small smile. Maybe it would be another close call like the night with the killer cabbie, the chemical plant ending up as just another crime scene to giggle at when the danger was over.

Or maybe it would be where everything ended.

The smile disappeared and John was left feeling more vacant then ever. He called Lestrade and told him the potential location of Holmes before hanging up and staring out the windshield, waiting for the moment he'd find Sherlock - hopefully in one piece.

.

* * *

**Author's Note**:

So this was a very very late update, not to mention a short chapter. I'm sorry - midterms, trip to Vancouver, now I'm super sick... life just likes to throw everything at me all at once. Thank-you for all the reviews last chapter! I re-read them all to get me pumped up - it worked! You're all so wonderful.

I love John. He just seems like the kind of person who can be so damn badass if given the chance. The scene with Mycroft, the shooting of the cabbie, the way he acted when he and Sarah were captured by the Black Lotus... he can be pretty damn tough - I wanted to show that. John is no damsel in distress! The next chapter might be the last one... I'm not so sure now. I'm debating doing it from Moriarty's perspective... but his thoughts are very different from both Sherlock and John - I might creep you out a little.

Please **read and review!** You all have been so good to me lately and I KNOW that there are plenty of errors in this chapter (I'm very much hopped up on Neo Citron and Tylenol).


	10. Chapter Ten

**Exception to the Rule**

.

* * *

Chapter Ten

* * *

.

The electric buzz of the old fluorescent lights reverberated off the tiled walls and made the skin tingle. Luminescence chased human sight as the bulbs shuddered awake in the furthest reaches of the basement. The sound of water was everywhere – trickling, dripping, rippling out from every corner of the pillared cavern. A flood had claimed the whole area with two inches of rainwater; the damage was a horror for the senses – black mould crawling up the walls and assaulting the nostrils of anyone near.

With his hand on the light switch Moriarty casually peeked into the room, an expression of interest written all over his smooth face. His eyes landed on an abandoned lump of flesh several meter's away at the base of a large pipe. A shadow passed over his face for a single moment before he turned his head a fraction and let the light roll over him.

"Там. Принесите мне того человека." Moriarty spoke in awkward Russian, gesturing for a huge man to come out from the shadows behind him to fetch the form currently residing in the water. The man looked to his boss with a blank beady-eyed stare before tromping into the flooded basement and walking over to the spot indicated.

With hands like baseball gloves, the stocky Russian rolled the drenched figure over and frowned. It was a thin man with alabaster skin; red welts dominated his neck and fresh bruises peppered his limbs. From what the man could see, the worst of the damage was a broken arm – but he knew this wasn't what he was supposed to find. His English maybe broken, but he recalled the word '_untouched_' during one of his employer's conversations; it was the one word that meant he didn't have to hurt somebody – and this person was _hurt_.

He picked up the man gently, finding his skin cold and breathing shallow. Quickly he took his package over to be inspected by his boss at the door. As expected, as soon as Moriarty caught sight of the man in his minion's arms, the man's eyes seemed to burn with a tempered fury – the likes of which the Russian had only seen in paintings of demons.

Contrary to his furious visage, a tender hand reached out to stroke the cheek of the pale man. A finger traced out a cheekbone and rubbed the moisture from the unconscious face. As if scalded, the hand instantly retreated and Moriarty turned his back on the tiled room. In his accented Russian, he ordered his lackey to follow him further into the abandoned building and into the darkness. The Russian felt fear, but it would be nothing compared to the terror those who failed Moriarty would experience.

.

John stepped out of the car and eyed the building with some trepidation. The barbed wire and moonless sky reminded him of campfire stories gone wrong. This was a brand of horror he wasn't sure he was ready for; but he was the type of man who advanced anyway.

The doctor took off his jacket and flung it overtop the fence to shield his skin from the rusted wires before climbing it like it was a military drill. Kitty Winter barked at him the entire time.

"Why the 'ell are you not waitin' for the police?"

He was halfway over, his jacket tearing in places as he swung his legs over the fence. "First it was '_there's no time_' and '_I don't like the DI_' now it's '_wait for the authorities_'? You like to change your tune pretty quickly."

The woman crossed her arms defensively and leaned against the outside of her dented car. "Well, I'm not goin' in there with you. I'm liable to get my bloody 'ead shot off." She looked at John as he landed on the other side of the fence, ignoring her as he stared at the crumbling old building before him. Kitty stared intently at the back of his head.

"You're goin' to leave me alone out 'ere aren't you?"

John looked over his shoulder, an apologetic smile on his lips. "The Detective Inspector will be around in a minute. Tell him I'm going in before the sirens tip Moriarty off." He didn't wait for her reply before bolting towards one of the low windows of the building and using some piece of debris to smash his way in - Kitty could wait, but Sherlock couldn't.

Kitty rolled her eyes and crawled into her car to keep warm. Sherlock Holmes seemed very odd to her, but now she could see why him and Doctor John Watson were _colleagues_.

.

Sherlock smelt his own vomit before he properly awoke and wondered airily if he were in the vicinity of Milverton's shoes. The concept of him upheaving over someone he didn't like still struck a humorous chord in him and he giggled; it hurt his ribs, and not to mention his dignity, when he realized he was in the company of his arch rival and his associate when he chose to express his amusement. Moriarty was staring down at him with a whimsical twist to his signature smile.

"Good morning _sunshine_." The voice brought back memories of the pool and Sherlock let out an involuntary shudder. To the detective's disadvantage, his mind was fuzzy and his vision distorted. For a moment he thought he was drunk until he raised his good arm and felt a lump on the back of his head - concussion.

"How are you _feeling_?" Moriarty's tone switched yet again into one that nipped at Sherlock's nerves. There was an underlying seriousness that made him unpredictable – a trait Sherlock admired, but not at the moment.

"I don't think your underlings like me very much…" There was a slur to his words, yet they came out strong. Sherlock straightened, suddenly aware he was unbound and wrapped in a thick blanket. Encompassing his shivering form was a very old armchair that stank of must. Instinctively, his eyes darted around the room and soaked up any details he could find; they were in some sort of break room - abandoned a little less than a decade ago, going by the magazine titles he spotted out of the corner of his eye. No one had been in the room for several years judging by the carpet of dust that was kicked up by Moriarty and his large comrade. Sherlock looked around for a company logo and immediately knew where he was. "The Flaherty Plant… this place was condemned last year."

"It's nice having a big scary place like this available for friendly _chats_. Though, I'm planning on an accident tonight so that detective of yours doesn't catch my scent – or yours for that matter. Lestrade was it? Interesting man for a _simpleton_. You _must_ place him in high regard; after all, you let him guard your toy soldier so I couldn't play with him." Moriarty sat on the cheap table in front of Sherlock and tilted his head. "I had to find another doll instead."

"Mycroft." A lump gathered in Sherlock's throat. His brother was most probably dead.

Moriarty continued his tirade, yet the expression in Sherlock's eyes attracted his attention. "That's all people really are Sherlock. Dolls. Cattle. _Boring_. You agree don't you?" The man rolled his shoulders and straightened out his suit as if they were talking about the weather. "You can make them move, dress them up, kill them, set them on _fire…_" His eyes gleamed in the lamplight, reveling in the fleeting expression of pain that flickered on Sherlock's face. "But in the end it's all _dull_ - tasteless even." Moriarty stared at his guest like an unashamed toddler, pausing as if he were lamenting a long lost memory – or perhaps an unthinkable future. "Yet the world is full of them. I'm _surrounded_ by idiots; imbeciles who know nothing of _power_ and _control_."

He stood up and advanced towards the bundled up detective. "However… _you_, Sherlock." He got close enough where Sherlock instinctively backed his head away a few inches to keep his personal space, and yet he was still near enough to feel Moriarty's breath across his damp skin. "My _dearest_… you've come the _closest – _can't you _see_? You understand me in ways others do not – _cannot_. You see them like _I_ see them; merely playthings in a dollhouse. Together we move our players from room to room, running through scenarios to wind away the time. I play the villain, you play the hero-"

"I'm not the hero."

Moriarty's smile widened. "I _know_."

Quick as lightning that face turned dark, pulled away a few inches, and looked towards the floor. "I don't want to _play_ anymore Sherlock. I'm tired of these games… I'm tired of the rules - of the push and pull – the rhythm we seem to have fallen into. I don't want to be the yin to your yang. It's not _right_!" He shouted angrily. The declaration was consumed in the sudden stillness of the room. Even the dust motes whirling in the moonlight from the windows seemed to slow down according to the will of Moriarty.

"We're built of the same material you and I."

He backed off, separating himself from his guest by several feet, but never turning his back. The continual eye contact held Sherlock in thrall and the sudden softness of his voice choked at the detective's ability to remain composed – he didn't know exactly what Moriarty wanted from him and it was disconcerting.

"I _need_ you."

The detective scoffed and rolled his eyes – if only to get Moriarty's face out of his vision for a mere moment. "You don't need _anyone_ Moriarty. There is room for only one spider in the center of its web; I'd only be a trussed up fly you'd be saving for later."

Moriarty smiled, "_Aw..._ you know me too well."

"Almost as well as I know myself."

Sherlock regretted the words as soon as they fled his mouth.

"And isn't that _wonderful?_ Did you work out Johnny boy as well as you figured me? Or is that part of the allure? Because honestly, I can't figure out why you and him are so _intimate_. I mean, he's _ordinary_! You and I… we're _gods _compared to them."

Sherlock yawned.

Moriarty stared; eyelids narrowing till the darkened lashes were nearly touching. "Sherlock, I'm offering you a partnership – one that will turn me into an ally rather than an _enemy_." Moriarty pressed a button on Sherlock's phone and threw the device into the detective's lap. Deftly, Sherlock picked it up with his good hand; curiosity turned into hope as he recognized his brother's number being dialed on the screen. He held it up to his ear and tried not to hold his breath.

"_Mr. Holmes? This is Timothy Gates speaking._" Came a bewildered voice from the speaker.

"Government official or police?" Sherlock tried to keep the trembling out of his words, but he shouldn't have bothered - the slur was masking most of it.

"_Neither - medical. I was bagging Mr. Holmes' – well… the other Mr. Holmes' personal effects, when this phone rang in my hand. Nearly gave me a heart attack. Big fan by the way… I read Dr. Watson's bl-_"

"Never mind that!" Sherlock hissed, "Is my brother alive?"

"_Oh yes. Just an overnight stay… some first degree burns, but you can never be too careful when you've been kidnapped by a psychopath-_"

Sherlock ended the call and slowly set the phone down on the arm of the chair. He stared at it for a moment before cocking his head at Moriarty. "You let him live. He should not have survived. _Why did you let him live?_" He whispered mostly to himself. "It's not in your nature."

The man's face scrunched up into one of barely concealed fury. "My associates ruined the game; I couldn't let you suffer for _their _folly, now could I? I already told you I have an accident planned for this building… well guess who I have strapped to those cans of propane that were intended for your sibling?" The anger melted into maniacal glee. "Six little brats who feared letting you out of their hands unscathed… over _me_. Couldn't have that. I have a _reputation_ to uphold."

Sherlock looked shocked, the hangover making him slower than average. "Five propane tanks… _six_ of your men? _Your own men_?"

Moriarty moved back to his perch on the table and extended a hand towards Sherlock's face – not close enough to touch, but close enough to make the man uncomfortable. "Oh don't worry. The man who damaged your pretty face doesn't have the luxury of being incinerated quickly - he gets to _slowly_ burn his way out of my thoughts." He trailed off and spared a glance to the door. "I'd let you watch, but no amount of dry-cleaning can remove the smell of fried flesh from your clothing. _Trust me_."

"I'll pass. Our opinions on entertainment differ."

"Does it?" A small chuckle escaped Moriarty's throat. "The _elation_ of a dead body, the _excitement_ of the chase, the _euphoria_ of a brilliant plan coming to fruition? Come on Sherlock… you're lying to the wrong person." The purr came back into his voice, but his eyes hardened. The detective sensed the end of the conversation approaching in the way Moriarty held himself – mentally poised for a yes or no answer to whatever question was lurking in that complex mind of his.

"Join me Sherlock. You cannot deny the perfect pair we'd make."

Sherlock drew his arms closer into the core of his being, ready for a physical backlash even though his rival didn't seem like the type. "I don't trust you."

"You don't need trust to have a good time."

"There is nothing _good_ in the work that you do."

"When did you ever care about what is good or bad? You walk between the lines… you _blur_ them with your footsteps. You _make_ the rules, not follow them - that's the duty of the blind sheep we're forced to work with. Think about it. No black and white, just _experimentation_."

"Without ethics."

"_Ethics._" Moriarty spat. Contempt was written all over him. "They've _tainted_ you. _He's _tainted you. The Sherlock I knew didn't care about _ethics, _the man I knew cared about _results_. I want results Sherlock, and I want them **NOW!**"

Only the Russian jumped at the sudden increase in volume. Sherlock sat demurely in the musty armchair and looked away from Moriarty as if the man's outburst was shameful.

"I won't join you."

Wrath started to bubble into Moriarty's voice. "_Why?_"

"Too easy. Can you imagine two minds as great as ours set up against Scotland Yard? _Please_, that's not even a challenge." Sherlock waved an arm in a lazy dismissive gesture.

"Oh, Britain will up the ante I'm sure – your brother for instance. He was _fascinating_ by the way."

"Is that the real reason you kept him alive?"

Moriarty put a finger to his lips and echoed Sherlock's smirk. "Stop stalling Sherlock. Give into your desires… I _know_ you want to stretch those supple fingers of yours into my world. It's everything you ever wanted."

Sherlock sighed and ran his hand through his curly hair. Moriarty followed the movement with his eyes, his mouth twitching at the corners.

"You're wrong."

The villain clenched his jaw and scrunched up his face in frustration. "Oh… of course. I forgot about _John_." He turned his back yet again, flexing his fingers as if he were about to deal with something unpleasant. "Well, if you join me, we would be able to discuss the situation as _friends_ - friends don't murder their friend's pets, _correct_?"

"John is safe and will _always_ be safe at my side. You can't threaten me the same way twice Moriarty."

The suited man turned his head only a few centimeters towards his shoulder and the sinister smile that warped its way across Moriarty's lips pushed Sherlock beyond shivering – it made his heart quiver in his chest. Thoughts dripped like molasses through his frozen mind, reassuring him that John was safe in Lestrade's cage. John wouldn't – _couldn't_ - fall victim to this man a second time.

But the poison of Moriarty's smile made doubt flow through his veins.

When the Russian man standing silent in the room moved towards the doorway as if cued, Sherlock knew something was horribly wrong. The man's huge hands opened the portal into Sherlock's nightmare as two gangsters cruelly dragged Doctor John Watson over the threshold by his arms - his legs choosing to not operate. With a quick inspection Sherlock observed that John was free of injury and his were eyes open and taking in the fact that Sherlock was alive. Relief shone in the doctor's face, but was replaced by worry once he noticed Moriarty grinning wolfishly at him. The gangsters dropped John's arms, letting him flop to the floor – prone.

"Nice of you to join us _doctor_."

John slowly pulled his arms towards his body as if struggling to get to all fours; one arm seemed to have crumpled beneath him during his short fall. Moriarty cocked his head, a slow look of confusion furrowing his forehead. Something wasn't adding up.

"I was hoping you'd say that…" John grunted, the arm reappearing just as he seemed to unfurl from his position on the ground to standing tall on his feet. "You're going to need one."

Everyone's eyes were magnetically attracted to the gun in his hand, and in one fluid movement that made Sherlock's eyes widen, John pulled back the safety and fired.

.

* * *

**Author's Note**:

Okay, so I didn't end it with this chapter, nor did I write it from Moriarty's point of view (since I didn't really want to go there. It's too different from the mood I set... so I did it from the Russian minion instead). I like it though. Again, Moriarty-Sherlock dialogue is difficult! I was trying to make Jim a little bit more serious... less flirty. Not sure if I pulled it off. Definitely sounds a little more grounded from chapter five's banter - but less creepy (I miss the creepy).

Hope you like the cliffhanger. _Go John go_! I had three different endings planned for this story... one that would end it here, one that will add another chapter or two, and one that would keep this damn story going on for ever (I was tempted to make him too late and be all 'Your princess is in another castle'). I chose the middle one.

Thank-you all for the reviews last chapter. I'm still ill, but I think it effected my writing a little less this time around (I'm going to fatten up last chapter soon, I'm still not happy with it). Thanks _goldvermilion87_ for the windscreen tidbit (I had no idea!) and_ Summerfall _for making me feel like last chapter wasn't my worst, and finally _LeDragonQuiMangeDuPoisson _(your name is so long!) I thought I lost you! I'm glad to see you back.

**Please Read and Review!** Give me love so I can fight this cold and write the finale T-T

- GinTsuki


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Exception to the Rule**

.

* * *

Chapter Eleven

* * *

.

Time twisted into a variable - another element of chaos in an experiment gone out of control. Noise became selective as gunshot faded into a subtle chime as if to make room for the clipped gasp that sprung unbidden from Moriarty's throat. Eyes widened, the villain tensed to leap aside. The bullet fled the chamber and the target stumbled backwards. He almost completed a graceful arc after impact, but Sherlock happened to be in his flight path. Moriarty fell heavily against the blanketed detective, jostling Sherlock's arm and making him cry out.

John knew the bullet went wide, but he had no time to make a second hit as he heard the two gangsters behind him draw out their weapons. The doctor rushed sideways, flinging himself over a dusty sofa for cover as they both fired with little accuracy. The rounds were silver tipped – too weak to penetrate the leather of the sofa. John counted himself extremely lucky as he reloaded.

He scrambled to get into a good position, shimmying to the floor and drawing himself up onto his knees. His military training controlled his breathing as he pivoted from behind the sofa and fired at his enemies in two concise bursts. He didn't hit anything since he had little time to aim, but at least they would get the hint to stay at a distance.

Meanwhile, the Russian in the corner made for his injured employer currently sitting in Sherlock's lap. He let his ill-tempered associates deal with the newcomer.

In the armchair, the pair of injured men squirmed to try and find what little comfort was left with in awkward situation. With closed eyes, Moriarty pressed a hand to his side, pulling it back once he felt a warm stickiness engulf his fingers. A look of disgust crossed his scrunched up face and he let out a shuttered breath. Sherlock's lips were at his ear, and the sound of his breathing made Moriarty open his eyes slowly.

Even though the detective was in pain, he couldn't keep the smile from his voice, "How are you _feeling?_"

The villain let out a weak chuckle and turned to face his rival, their noses were practically touching. "Well aren't you adorable..." His lips twitched as he forced out the words between short gasps of air. The bullet might have nicked a lung - he could feel his right lung compensating.

Sherlock noticed that the man's eyes were already becoming glassy, his pupils uneven as he entered shock. It was odd seeing a monster in such a vulnerable state, yet staring at him with fire in the pit of his soul.

"I should have known better then to dress up for you..." Moriarty's head lolled back till it was resting against Sherlock's shoulder. His breathing was becoming ragged, but for some reason he began to giggle madly. "Your _boyfriend_ owes me a new suit..."

The huge Russian arrived to loom over the pair, and made a motion to pluck Moriarty from the detective's lap; however, Moriarty kicked at him like a small child. Sherlock whined in pain at the shockwaves of agony Moriarty was causing him through his actions. He had some solace in knowing that the idiot was making his wound bleed out worse with every flail.

"Don't _touch_ me!" Moriarty managed, clinging to Sherlock as he glared at his minion with all the malice he could muster. Once the man backed off, Moriarty looked to his prize and took in the scent of him. "This isn't over... it's never going to be over Sherlock... I'll keep chasing you until you see things my way." Sherlock struggled to look at the expression on his rival's face, but Moriarty had his nose buried into his neck. He could feel the man's blood seeping through the folds of blanket separating their bodies.

"I'm _bleeding_…" Moriarty said with a whine, his fingers digging into Sherlock's collarbone through his shirt. The pressure fluctuated variably as the villain drifted through several levels of consciousness. It took him a moment to try and gather his wits and resume his threats.

"John will die… and then you'll see." His voice was becoming thick with oncoming coma; the softness of it causing Sherlock to wonder if that were Moriarty's natural timbre. His last words made Sherlock frown.

"That fucking _parasite_..."

Suddenly Moriarty was nothing but dead weight and the Russian advanced, grabbing his boss as if he were an overgrown child. The minion spared Sherlock a glance, contemplation in those small dark eyes, but in the end he left the detective and started to skirt behind the standoff taking place near the door.

John spotted the large man lugging Moriarty towards the exit and started to panic; he didn't get this far to let the man escape yet again. He rolled out from behind his cover and started to fire at the Russian, but his enemies took the initiative and went for John while he was vulnerable.

One bullet hit his forearm while the other ricocheted off of his gun and missed him by an inch. His pistol flew out of his hand, breaking his trigger finger and causing him to instinctively curl into himself to protect his torso. The gangsters went to fire another round, their employer now clear of danger, when Sherlock came out of nowhere with his thick blood-stained blanket and threw it over the heads of the two assailants, ramming into the one closest to him. They all hit the ground like dominoes, the clatter of guns, shoes and faces hitting rugged carpet making John raise his head.

"Sherlock!"

"John! Shut-up and fire!" the detective wheezed, trying to grapple with one of the men using only one arm - he wasn't aware of John's predicament.

The doctor shakily clambered to his feet, swaying only once before and stomping on a hand that managed to worm itself out of Sherlock's juvenile trap. The gun held in his tattooed fingers slipped to the floor and John kicked it towards his flat mate. He couldn't locate the other one, so he grabbed his own instead and raised it in his offhand, gesturing for Sherlock to do the same with the liberated weapon; he did and shimmied back, targeting the blanketed thug from his position on the floor.

"Two guns to one - don't make me shoot you." John said firmly. Blood weaved an interesting pattern down his arm. The amount of crimson that was flowing freely out of the doctor's wrist made Sherlock double take and appraise their catch with a new eye.

"John. Call an ambulance, I've got these two."

John didn't move, but he didn't have to. A loud rumble seemed to emanate from beneath their feet, making everyone vibrate violently. The doctor struggled to remain balanced while standing, but the task proved impossible as he tumbled to the ground.

The floorboards creaked as a multitude of explosions rocked the chemical plant. Sherlock heard the momentary splintering of wood before he threw himself towards John and shouted for him to hold on – even though there was nothing to hold on to.

The ground seemed to erupt as if hell itself opened up beneath them. Flat surfaces became impossible inclines and Sherlock and John slid into flying furniture and skidding debris. A chain of explosions sent the room into a spinning nightmare as the floor gave way and the duo went into an uncontrolled freefall.

John didn't remember hitting the ground.

.

Sherlock woke up first, the smoke and flames making his eyes useless in their new surroundings. His mind was nothing but a series of words and images jumbled into a blender. How did he get here? Where was here anyway? The detective tried to move but he yelped in agony. His arm was trapped under something, and from the pain burning its way through his nervous system, he realized that he must have dislocated his arm. He went to move the other one, but he found that his hand was in a vice-like grip and something was keeping it there.

Blood. Lots of it. Sherlock's hand was around John's wrist applying pressure, but the blood had congealed and the detective didn't dare remove it. His friend was pale and his eyelids fluttering – struggling to open.

"S-Sherlock."

"John, John don't – don't move." Sherlock stuttered, crawling through his maze of thoughts to figure out what to do next.

John groaned and trying to blink away his discomfort. He heard the sounds of the building coming down around him and he knew if they stayed where they were any longer then they would get crushed and cremated – not necessarily in that order.

From the looks of things they were buried under burning chairs, broken tables and factory equipment. Sherlock was wedged partially beneath him, his pupils mis-matched and his face bruised and scratched. He struggled to convey the seriousness of their situation to a man who was most likely seriously concussed.

"We can't stay here Sherlock. We need to get out." The doctor coughed, every spasm making Sherlock sick with pain.

"I'm stuck…" The helplessness in the detective's voice sent alarm bells throughout John's brain. When Sherlock felt out of his depth, they were definitely in trouble.

John attempted to roll away from his friend, gasping with the effort. His only option was to lean against a scalding hot metal chair leg to free up Sherlock's upper body. The smell of his coat burning made the doctor gag, but Sherlock pulled his arm loose with a tortured cry, and then fell against John when he rolled back.

"We'll get out of this Sherlock…" The doctor said optimistically as he raised his only available arm to check his flat mate's pulse. The man recoiled a few inches to escape John's mother-henning and scoffed into his chest.

"Based upon what _facts_ John?"

"Hope can exist without facts…"

Sherlock sighed and curled into John to escape the flames encroaching on their hiding place. It was easier to breathe in the space between their bodies. Already the smoke was starting to build and suffocation seemed likely.

The awkwardness of the movement was forgotten until the detective blurted in a choked whisper, "I always thought I would die alone."

John felt like such a statement from the heart was a little bit too intimate for the occasion. The doctor's eyes shifted to look down at the tall form trying to bury himself into his rumpled jumper. The situation was so surreal he couldn't come up with something to say. Minutes passed with nothing but the crackling of fire and the groaning of support beams threatening to give way. A large collapse to the left of them sent a rod crashing inches away from John's head. It seemed like death would claim them when the fire finally caught the table above them on fire, but a familiar ring cut through everything and made John's eyes widen.

"Sherlock, your phone!" He looked down to see his friend's matted curls - but no response. John's heart did a flip until he felt the shuddered rise and fall of the man's chest; the double concussion must have claimed him at last. The ring persisted until Sherlock's voice mail took over.

John tried to push himself and his unconscious flat mate closer to the ground, the flames above them searing clothing and skin.

The phone rang again a moment later, and John began to hear the shifting of metal and wood to his right. Through a small space in their cocoon of debris, John spotted the highlighter yellow bands of a fireman several feet away and nearly cried with relief. He used his free hand to shake Sherlock.

"I told you we'd get out of this!" John laughed maniacally, spluttering on the smoke. "HEY! HERE! WE'RE OVER HERE!"

The fireman gestured to other figures searching through the rubble and pointed to John and Sherlock's hiding place. The doctor couldn't stop his hysterical laughter as he hugged Sherlock to him, rocking back and forth despite the pain and feeling as if the man were his ticket to freedom.

.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

Well! The story is pretty much wrapped up now. Moriarty escaped yet again - though injured by John. The boys are worse for wear, but alive and all mysteries will be concluded in the epilogue. Thank-you all for reading, it was a huge pleasure to entertain you. I think I may write another installment once the next three episodes come out... since Moriarty is never going to stop - not while Sherlock is working against him.

Thank-you all again! Please **Read and Review** it's my goal to get this fic to **100 reviews**. If I do make it to 100 I have a very adorable short story I'll tack on to the end of of this fic to make you chuckle. It's a Sherlock experiment gone hilarious - John's doing of course. How's that for incentive?

Hope you're looking forward to the epilogue! Love you all!


	12. Epilogue

**Exception to the Rule**

**.**

* * *

Epilogue

* * *

.

It was surprisingly restful in the lobby of the private hospital John had the pleasure of being admitted to. Everything was shining surfaces and peaceful colours; even the medical staff seemed zen-like as they meandered the halls with clipboards and smiles. John assumed it would be a blessing working as a doctor in a place with no emergency services; then again, having to take care of the eccentric members of the Holmes family might equate to the hell of an average doctor. From what John saw, he'd work a night shift at ER before attempting to administer anything to Sherlock.

John was in the midst of wondering what sort of country the strange plants in the corner were native to, when Detective Inspector Lestrade entered the building looking somewhat perplexed. When the officer spotted John, he let out a relieved puff of air and strolled over with his hands in the pockets of his coat.

"Two security checks and a full body scan. You'd think I was entering Vauxhall Cross."

John laughed, making Lestrade slip into an easiness that was unseen for the last few days. Scotland Yard was working overtime trying to piece together the mysteries Sherlock left in his wake. The real murderer of Daniel Wilkins was standing trial tomorrow, whilst her sisters were placed in a protection program to keep them out of Moriarty's grasp – if he still had one. The paperwork for that case alone was daunting. Then there was Mycroft's kidnapping and the constant back and forth with the SIS Lestrade had to coordinate. It was a wonder he even left his office.

"My sister said the same when she visited; had her entire life story read out at the gate." John's smile faded somewhat at the recollection. Harry wasn't exactly pleased to know that he was injured sneaking into a chemical plant at the crack of dawn. "What brings you here?"

A Cheshire smile crawled onto Lestrade's face. "Oh, I have a warrant for a certain someone who was tampering with evidence."

John didn't know how to react. The visual of Sherlock getting arrested was alluring to the more vindictive part of the doctor's soul that spent the last few days behind bars... but then again, Sherlock needed all the rest he could get.

"Could you wait a few days?"

"Oh no. He'll leg it if I wait, then find some hole in my net while I spend taxpayers' money looking for him. Besides, he'll be under house arrest until he recovers; this way he'll really be in trouble if he slips out from under Mycroft's eye." Lestrade stuck his head around a corner to view the door down the corridor that housed Sherlock. "How is he by the way? – and you." His eyes went to the tight bandage around John's wrist.

The doctor noticed the movement and gently patted the dressing. "Its fine - just a graze. Won't be able to use my hand for awhile... needed to repair two ligaments." John looked towards the door to Sherlock's room, despite the fact it was out of his sight. "Sherlock is up and about, against the doctor's orders mind you; every once in awhile a nurse will dope him when he's not looking. I think it's Mycroft's doing... both of them are insufferable when they're together."

"Which is why you're in the lobby...?"

John smiled again, "Which is why I'm in the lobby."

Lestrade nodded absent-mindedly as he looked back down the corridor. "Do you mind…?"

"-Playing referee? I've been doing it all day." The doctor got to his feet, looking somewhat wary. "Mycroft is the difficult one mind you. Sherlock's easy to bully if you come at him at the right angle." At this, Lestrade raised an eyebrow.

The doctor shuffled awkwardly before revealing his strategy. "I've been holding his violin hostage. He likes to play when he's bored, and God is he ever bored in here." John rubbed his eyes and let out a low breath of air before continuing. "I know the daily routines of every single nurse, including which celebrity they fancy and how they fold their laundry. I thought the violin would help somewhat, though Mycroft said that if I bring it around I'll be missing a kidney after my next dental appointment. I can't win." He didn't add that Sherlock offered his own kidney as a replacement. John had retained enough of his sanity to realize that such a proposal was rather high on the 'not good' scale; though it didn't stop the sociopath from getting offended by his rejection.

The pair approached the door, their idle conversation growing quiet as the shouting match within the ward became progressively louder.

"Childish Sherlock! Your business is unequivocally related to mine, so I will continue to monitor your actions until I deem you capable of handling your own affairs without interfering with mine."

There was a moment of silence before Sherlock hissed back, "_Childish? _Wanting privacy is _childish_? You're _meddling_ Mycroft! I do not need to be molly-coddled!"

"Then explain to me why you always run _away_ from your problems... yet _towards_ your enemies? I've seen less suicidal _lemmings_!"

"You're comparing me to a lemming." There was a note of disgusted disbelief worming into the detective's words.

However, Mycroft seemed unperturbed. "Yes actually. I think it sums you up quite well."

Sherlock was just about to open his mouth to reply, but John decided to end his bout of eavesdropping by opening the heavy door and wandering inside. Both Holmes' turned to look at him from their hospital beds, their expressions turning neutral in his presence. Behind him, Lestrade brushed past and made his way to the end of Sherlock's bed.

"Morning Detective Inspector," Sherlock greeted with a hint of sarcasm. His playful grin tugged at the corner of his lips, making John wonder what sort of ideas were coming to the detective's mind. It was obvious he knew why Lestrade was there. The consulting detective was eyeing the DI like a cat would a piece of string - timing his strike.

Mycroft fetched a newspaper from his bedside table and buried himself in it. Something about the action amused the doctor and he found himself smiling to himself yet again. In the back of his mind he wondered if the staff was pumping the room full of nitrous oxide – it was theoretically possible due to the caustic personalities of the two Holmes brothers. Hell, if they weren't, John might have a word with one of the nurses.

Lestrade tried to adopt the most intimidating pose he could muster before staring down at Sherlock with an intense frown. "You have been tampering with evidence Sherlock. You incriminated Dr. Watson in the Daniel Wilkins case."

Sherlock's grin became wider. "_Me_? Surely _not_. Had I been the perpetrator you would have no evidence by which to arrest me." The man looked to his nails as if he had not a care in the world. The IV dangling at his arm caught his eye for a split second, grounding his amusement. "You only have the word of one prostitute who was under a lot of duress."

"She said that you would offer her assistance if she withheld information."

"Did she? And your proof of her accusation?" Sherlock's eyes lifted to take in the expression on Lestrade's face. "_Come now_, you didn't come all the way here with absolutely no definitive way of pinning this to me?"

It was then when Mycroft coughed in the corner, drawing his younger sibling's attention. At first Sherlock had his eyebrow perched in a perplexed manner, but then his face twisted into one of dead seriousness.

"_The cameras_..." A look of understanding crossed Sherlock's visage and he sank like a defeated man into the fluffed pillows of his bed. "I should have known…"

John caught the whimsical smirk adorning Mycroft's lips and the sudden confidence that seemed to radiate from Lestrade.

"Your brother tells me he has some interesting footage taken from the night Daniel Wilkins died."

"It is a violation of my rights to privacy having cameras in my household." Sherlock glared darkly at anyone who dared look upon him.

"It is your place of business. Also, there are no independent tort law doctrines which recognize a person's right to privacy. I'm being polite by only placing them in your common room." Mycroft turned a page of the newspaper. "Besides, it's all talk. The Detective has nothing." His eyes swiveled to rest on Sherlock's face, and he clenched his jaw in silent anger. "-_yet_"

John took the moment to take control of the situation. "All right, Superiority complexes aside-"

Mycroft sighed as his brother opened his mouth. "I do _not_ possess a superiority complex John. A superiority complex is nothing but a mask worn by one who is harbouring feelings of anxiety. I am not anxious..." Sherlock practically threw himself away from his friend, curling into a ball of feigned angst, "and I am _genuinely_ superior. Facts John. **Facts**."

John rubbed his face, a frustrated chuckle springing from his throat as he watched the man's antics. He had enough of Sherlock's theatrics to last a lifetime. "Sherlock, I've seen less dramatic school girls."

Mycroft snorted, greatly amused by the doctor's sudden bluntness.

It was obvious Sherlock wasn't taking the blow to his ego well. He looked over his shoulder and seemed as if he were about to snap, but something made him stop in mid expression. His lip twitched into one of his quirky smiles as he made eye contact with his flat mate. The doctor raised a single eyebrow - silently inquiring as to the nature of this sudden change in temperament. Yet Sherlock merely sank back into his bed and tore his face away, confusing John and leaving him speechless. John exchanged perplexed looks with both DI Lestrade and Mycroft before attempting to bring an air of normality back into the room. He decided that Sherlock's actions were either drug induced or a pathetic attempt at playing with his mind.

"What I was _trying_ to say, is that Mycroft will keep his information to himself, if you… you-" John didn't want to use this particular verb, but it was the only one that sprang to mind, "-_behave_."

"I will, will I?" Mycroft was quick to inquire.

John shot him a pleading look that clashed with Mycroft's expression of warning. Apparently neither Holmes brother liked to be told what to do.

"Does _behave_ mean tolerating _him_?" Sherlock added, adopting a face that would look more at home on a toddler.

DI Lestrade scoffed, "Can this get anymore juvenile? Mycroft - if Sherlock puts one toe out of line send me your footage; and Sherlock - once you've recovered I want you down at the station, _immediately_."

Mycroft cleared his throat, making the detective sigh and mutter, "_oh for the love of God you two_... please. Could you **_please_** send the footage? No... you know what? My people will talk to your people. I had enough of this nonsense." Lestrade marched out of the hospital, giving John an apologetic look as he exited.

Both Holmes brothers turned to John looking smug, as if to say 'now what?'

John knew he was losing the high ground. "I know that asking the both of you for a cease fire is going to get me no where, so, let me phrase this in a way both of you will understand." The parental tone of voice instantly caught Sherlock and Mycroft's attention. John could see the determination to rebel in their eyes and inwardly smiled.

He reached into his pocket and withdrew Sherlock's cell phone. The nurse had confiscated it during Sherlock's first nap due to the signals interfering with the hospital equipment. She gave it to John for safe keeping, not knowing the power she willingly forfeited. The doctor turned it on and scrolled down the contacts list as the siblings computed his actions and came to the same conclusion.

"You wouldn't _dare_." Sherlock said with genuine gall.

The doctor rotated the phone so both siblings could clearly see the contact he brought up. It was labeled "Mummy Holmes", and the fear he saw in both grown men made John wonder just what sort of god-like power he was wielding.

"You are aware that calling one's mother is rather underhanded. I wouldn't think you the type to stoop so low John." Mycroft commented dryly.

"Trust me, I'm willing to try anything to get the both of you to shut up and listen for once." He put the phone away to lower the tension in the room. "I'm tired - _very_ tired... and the nurses and doctors are likewise. We've all been through some tough situations lately, so for one day - one _bloody_ day - can you please cooperate? All of Britain needs you two back on your feet as soon as possible, and that's not going to happen if you're trying to kill each other the moment one of you are looking the other way."

Mycroft and Sherlock were momentarily speechless. It took awhile for the awkwardness to dissipate by breaking the silence.

"I think you're misunderstanding the situation." The older sibling looked uncomfortable. It suddenly dawned on John that perhaps the game of cat and mouse Mycroft and Sherlock played was their way of returning everything to normal. Why was it that he could never think before opening his mouth?

Sherlock crossed his arms defensively and eyed Mycroft with a strange expression. It almost looked like they were communicating silently. "You win John. I submit to this torture for Queen and country." His words dripped sarcasm, but the fight left him and he returned to his usual lethargic pose that reminded the doctor of the sofa at home. John was stunned Sherlock was actually giving in.

"How are your sister and her date?"

John's jaw returned to his face.

"Fine, Harry told me she slapped you though." A playful smirk tugged at John's lips. "You seem to sustain a remarkable amount of damage to your face, it's a wonder it still has any appeal."

Sherlock smirked and lolled his head in his brother's direction. "Hear that Mycroft? He called me pretty."

"Remind me to take the cameras out of the common room." He flipped a page of his newspaper.

John turned a shade of red that rivaled that of a tomato. "I _didn't..._ I mean..." The doctor was interrupted mid-babble as a nurse slipped into the room and started to routinely check the IV machines. She seemed surprised not to run into a battle zone.

"Note for you sir." She gently set a small folded piece of paper on Mycroft's side table and left as quickly as she came, taking both bed charts from the brothers as she went.

Mycroft looked to the note as if he were suddenly detached from reality. It was as if the nurse set a ticking time bomb in the room, and John was curious as to the cause. Sherlock looked away respectfully and answered the silent question, "Anna?"

It was the first time he remembered her name.

"Her funeral is next week." Mycroft commented as if he were merely talking about the weather.

"I'm sorry." John whispered, a little shell shocked. He had known that she had passed away on the night the chemical plant exploded, but he didn't have the time to process it – nor to mourn. Her face came to the forefront of his memory and a lump grew in his throat. "She was a good woman."

"You have no idea."

Silence dominated the area and it seemed like a dark cloud crawled over the windows and ceiling. After several minutes, John caught a subtle flutter of Sherlock's eyelashes and the slight sinking of his body into the mattress. It was a welcome distraction and the doctor took it. He wandered over with some hesitation before stooping to examine him. From Sherlock's pulse and breathing, John wondered if the nurse struck yet again. Sure enough, there was a spent hypodermic in the disposal that made John question if Mycroft employed ninjas.

"Sherlock?" John asked tentatively - not expecting a response.

"He's gone, you can tell because his right hand twitches in his sleep."

John turned to the older brother, a look of astonishment on his face. "I didn't even see the nurse dose him..."

Mycroft settled into his sheets, "That's the point. It takes a special talent to escape Sherlock's notice."

John watched his flat mate sleep. Mycroft was right, his right hand _did_ twitch. "Impressive."

The rise and fall of Sherlock's chest seemed to lull John into a false sense of security. Brief flashes of recalled images from the wreckage of the plant made his stomach crawl up his throat. Never had they both been so close to death, and never had John felt so connected to anyone in his life.

Mycroft observed the series of facial expressions that overcame John's face and his eyes softened. "You really care about him."

It wasn't a question. It never was when one was having a conversation with a member of the Holmes family.

"It's odd; someone like him, and someone like me. I'm ordinary and he's a genius, it's a wonder someone like him even bothers to try. Try and reach out to me." He'd never seen Sherlock slow down his thoughts for anyone; let alone take the time to explain his thinking as much as he did for him. It would be like a cheetah keeping pace with a turtle.

"Yet, I need someone to keep me moving... and he needs someone to make him stop. Sometimes I wonder if he _wants_ to get himself into a horrible situation just to see if he can get out of it. If I'm there, he cares too much to-" John sensed he was going somewhere he really didn't want to go and out of desperation he changed the topic. "He can be such an idiot! You were right about the lemming thing. How the hell did he survive before I got here?"

"Things were different."

"How so?" John was curious now.

Mycroft took the time to fold up his newspaper and set it gently on his side table. "As you know, Sherlock isn't the most personable human being on the Earth."

"You call him _human_? Now I know they're pumping something in here…" John laughed lightly, trying to break the seriousness that crept suddenly into the conversation.

"I knew from the moment I first laid eyes on you that my brother was destined to change. You're the only person he respects, and the respect of Sherlock Holmes isn't easily gained."

"Just say something to stroke his ego... worked for me."

"John. I told you before, I was the closest thing Sherlock had to a friend; but I was wrong. The most wrong I have ever been in my life." There was gravity to those words which would haunt John for months. "I thought my brother would never find someone who understands him like you or I." Mycroft stared into John's eyes, making him tense up and wish he were anywhere else.

"John, as a rule, Sherlock never lets anyone close. I've grown up with him. I know more then _anyone_ what he is like; and yet, there's you - the exception to the rule."

John slowly slid his eyes back to the slumbering Sherlock – churning Mycroft's words over in his mind. Somewhere, buried deep, the doctor realized what that meant.

.

* * *

**Author's Notes**:

All right, I delayed enough. There's your epilogue! It's done. Complete. It's 2am and I have class tomorrow morning, but you all have been waiting long enough. I re-read some of the later chapters and I realized that the quality has been getting progressively worse. I'll be fixing that soon enough.

**PLEASE TELL ME ABOUT ANY TYPOS, GRAMMAR ISSUES, PLOT HOLES AND THE LIKE. **Even if it's not this chapter, or if it's one of my annoying habits (like then and than, I got to get myself on that one…).

My offer still stands regarding a short story filled with adorableness and a just a hint of slash if I reach **100 reviews**. If everyone on the alert list posts _just once_ that quota is easily filled. Tell me your favorite colour if you need a reason (mine's green by the way).

I love you all, thank you for taking the time to read this. Your comments mean a lot. I mean it, THANK YOU!


	13. Bonus Chapter

**Exception to the Rule**  
**.**

* * *

Bonus Chapter

* * *

.

Doctor Watson was at the end of his rope. His day was fraught with tired explanations and feeble attempts to regain what little reputation he had as a stereotypical medical man; for John found that once you get dragged from your office by the police, aged witnesses spontaneously develop hyperactive imaginations. Mrs. Ryan was under the impression that the good doctor was euthanizing the elderly like she read about in France; another was certain he was a fraud and cut out his credentials from an internet printout. Miss Wilshire swears she heard him screaming, "You won't take me alive!" to anyone who would listen as he was dragged kicking and screaming from the building by Donavan and company.

Needless to say Wilshire's physical that day was rather awkward on both parts.

Sarah wasn't anymore refreshing. She had found the whole situation understandable but infuriating considering John was attached at the hip to a detective who attracted all things dodgy and bizarre. She had ranted that It was only a matter of time before Sherlock would stick his nose in John's business and ruin it all - and to make matters worse, she used backwards reasoning so that John couldn't use it as fodder against the detective. After all, Sherlock locked him up for _his own safety_.

The relationship between the doctor and the detective was beyond complicated. Sarah didn't think she could keep up with every underlying emotion and peculiar bouts of tension that sprang between the two of them.

"It was inevitable John, you know that man better then I do and even _I_ saw it coming. He's trying to sabotage your job."

John slowly crammed his personal medical tools into his briefcase and shut it heavily. There was an expression on his face that was a cross between amusement, exhaustion and annoyance. "I wouldn't go so far as to say '_sabotage_…'"

"What would you call it then?"

The woman crossed her arms to prevent herself from making fists and leaned against the wall of John's temporary office. The word '_temporary_' always felt right in Sarah's mind when she thought about the little room, since John never really attached himself to the place – or her for that matter. The bond between them was fragile; so much so that any girl in her right mind would see immediately the lost cause in their bizarre courtship. Sarah didn't want to get hurt. She was a rational, logical woman; but John was kind, and the way he looked at the world lured her like moth to flame. Internal conflict raged as her instincts told her to back off, but John's genuine good guy attitude made her want to take advantage. She could sense a lot of pain on both sides was forthcoming if she ever wanted to their relationship to be something more.

Then there was Sherlock. The detective definitely counted as a major pain.

John struggled to reply, "It's just another quirk about Sherlock - which has you giving me that face that tells me that this is going to end in another argument where I'm going to go home and be mad at my flat mate for no direct reason of his own making."

He watched as Sarah opened her mouth to continue the conversation, but he intervened by throwing up a hand of warning. Her lips pursed together in a way that both attracted and repelled the man.

"Don't start. He may be an absolute git and a terrible friend, but he can't help the way he is. His work could start wars, end marriages and save lives, yet he can't buy a pair of shoes without making an enemy out of the salesman. When I'm with him, I can at least apologize for him and give him a head start before the pitchforks come out."

"You're making excuses for him!"

"That's all I can do Sarah!" Something in his tone made the woman back down; all the exhaustion he was trying to hide leaked out in his tempered words, leaving Sarah feeling guilty for bringing the topic up. John was dead set against telling Sherlock off and it would be a relationship ender if she made him choose between them now.

"Right. Well…" There was no smooth way to end this conversation. Sarah struggled to find something neutral to say.

"I'll see you tomorrow I suppose."

The sudden tension in the office didn't suit John. Other people would have done the complicated verbal dances and left the emotional mess for another day, but the doctor knew this conversation would only fester if Sarah brooded on it over night.

"Sarah. You and Sherlock both mean a lot to me… and trying to balance a normal life and a sociopath is proving to be nearly impossible." He lifted his briefcase of the desk and walked up to his girlfriend with a very tired smile. "I'm glad that you've stuck by me through this mess. Chinese smugglers should have been your first red flag but you stayed with me anyway. I'm grateful, I really am."

John gave her a passing kiss. It melted the icy mood that had settled between them and made a very small smile crawl onto Sarah's expression; he echoed it wearily, "Just let me handle Sherlock my own way. He's my problem, all right?"

"All right."

A warm look passed from John to Sarah, and with that he took his leave and waved goodbye to the receptionist on his way out.

**.**

Sherlock was staring at a beaker of something foul smelling when John entered the flat carrying his briefcase and a hardened expression. The detective's attention shifted millimeters to the left to allow his peripherals to sweep across the man and absorb his features. It was a habit, a ritual - maybe even a game, figuring out what had happened to John while he was away from his daily debris.

Peeking out from the lip of John's briefcase was the corner of the doctor's lab coat. This indicated that there was a distraction at work whilst John was packing up to go home. Probability favored Sarah being the cause of John's diverted attention since things between the two of them had "not been good" since the night at the pool – though recent events revolving around John's temporary incarceration had not improved the situation either.

Secondly, Sherlock picked up the crumbs of a fresh ginger snap on his flat mate's jumper. It was likely Mrs. Hudson's baking since the detective has smelt them earlier; though, at the time, he thought it might have been an interesting chemical reaction occurring during his experiment since he was playing with esters that morning and he wasn't keen on cleaning his Erlenmeyers to a laboratory standard. Anyway, the presence of the cookie boded ill, for one of two things had happened upon John entering the building. Either the woman had pestered John into tasting her ginger snaps when they bumped into each other on the stairwell, _or_ the assumed conversation he had with Sarah poisoned John's mind against him, _yet again,_ and the doctor went to Mrs. Hudson in an attempt to clear his head before exposing himself to whatever catastrophe his flat mate caused to pass the time that day. If the first scenario were true, then John would be have encountered their landlady in flight and would paused only for small talk in which Mrs. Hudson would have given the doctor a spare cookie destined for Sherlock . If the second were true… there would be no spare cookie because Mrs. Hudson would have thought less interaction with Sherlock to be healthy for John's state of mind, leading to the ex-soldier puttering around awkwardly for hours until Sherlock did said something true to his personality that would make the man snap and cut straight to the issue that was plaguing him – that issue being something Sarah brought up earlier in the conversation that would have started everything. Damn women sometimes.

"Did you get the bicarbonate of soda I asked for?" Sherlock tested, bored with the conclusions his mind had drawn. He instantly discarded the deductions and instead, focused back on his work. Black eyes held the bubbling beaker clattering away on a hot plate with unbridled interest. He wasn't certain vitriol was supposed to turn that color when exposed to pig fat…

John set the briefcase down and removed his coat. "Baking soda? No… when did you ask me?"

"I texted you. Over an hour ago."

The doctor rummaged around his folded jacket to fish his scarred phone out of the pocket. "Sorry, had my phone off. Sarah was complaining that it went chimed far too frequently to be professional." There was a jolt of tension in the room at the mention of the woman's name. John quickly distracted himself with a sudden urgency to be in the kitchen. He gave Sherlock's experiment a whimsical raise of one eyebrow as he passed to access the refrigerator.

He was so used to the strange contents stacked haphazardly within the fridge that he didn't bat an eye at what looked like a Tupperware container filled with flakes of dead skin. Casually, he withdrew a pitcher of some miscellaneous juice Mrs. Hudson left them last time she cleared out the icebox. He then turned and poured himself a glass of the red liquid before leaning against the counter to watch Sherlock work. John's attention was mainly focused on the tensor bandage that wound its way up Sherlock's still mending arm. It was just barely visible beneath the detective's dress shirt.

"What case are you on? The one from Sussex?"

"Something more interesting. I set the Sussex one aside for now." Sherlock started to rifle through various instruments on the table with his good hand.

"Anything I can do to help?" John asked, being surprisingly interactive after a hard day's work.

Sherlock grabbed a pair of tongs and went to remove his beaker from the hot plate with only one hand. "Yes actually, can you fetch me the cooling mat?"

John complied by grabbing a silicon coated ceramic grate from next to the sink. He quickly set it down on the table; however, he underestimated its mass and how much weight his hand could bear after being in a splint for weeks. The cooling mat hit the wood with a clatter jostled the table just enough so that Sherlock's grip on the tongs slipped only a fraction – but a fraction was enough. His experiment crashed to the table and it was as if the world slowed down.

Surprisingly the beaker did not shatter on impact, but at the angle the bottom of the container had hit the table, it sent the majority of the bubbling contents flying in John's direction.

Sherlock panicked as the substance made contact with John's jumper. Both flat mates were trained in a Laboratory setting and knew the sort of reversible damage that was about to happen if they didn't act immediately. Vitriol not only burned chemically; but when in contact with skin it did some extra damage thermally.

Together John and Sherlock removed the upper layers of the soiled clothing with impressive speed. Even with a freshly knitted arm, the detective managed to discard the jumper with one vicious arc of his wrist to the table where the acid concentration was highest. This was in order to douse the whole mess with a bottle of Hydrogen Peroxide he had handy. Now that he had the acid neutralized, he growled at John to get moving towards the shower since there was no telling how much vitriol had soaked through his knit top and onto his skin.

The pair of them passed a rather frazzled Mrs. Hudson who was frozen in the doorway. She had passed their door at the exact moment Sherlock had lunged at John and started tearing all his clothes off like some sort of possessed animal. It didn't help that he was barking something about a much needed shower for the world to hear.

"Mrs. Hudson, if you're just going to stand around, make yourself useful and call an ambulance!"

"No Sherlock, I'm fine. Honest. I don't think it got through the jumper… seriously… this is unnecessary…" John was trying to say as he was being half dragged towards the bathroom. The sound of water being hastily turned on only gave the doctor a split second warning before he was practically thrown into a freezing shower.

"SHERLOCK!" Was all John managed to sputter before his body ceased up to conserve heat. The detective tried to orientate his friend into a position that allowed water access to as much skin as possible. The whole ordeal was cold as ice and John thought he was going to have goose bumps for life.

Mrs. Hudson came bounding up behind them both looking as if she were feeling the entire spectrum of human emotion at once. "Sherlock, what are you doing to him? Are you daft? If this is a domestic I won't stand for this behavior!"

Sherlock, who was busy trying to make sure that John's front was getting properly flushed with water gave a frustrated cry and turned to address the frantic landlady cluttering up the bathroom door. "Mrs. Hudson! Please refrain from your nattering for just five minutes!" His dark locks were soaking wet and plastered to his forehead. His dress shirt was completely drenched from leaning over the lip of the bathtub to direct John, who was now trying to curl into a ball towards the shower head.

"G-god…. It's ssssss… so c-cold!" John shouted over the sound of rushing water. His jeans were heavy with the run off from the shower, and all the noise coming from the squelching of his knees against the bathtub, Sherlock shouting, Mrs. Hudson worrying, the water tapping against everything, and his own chattering comments, made the whole experience very confusing.

Freezing, the doctor clung to whatever extremities his flat mate brought near to him just so that he could leech what meager warmth they offered from him. It got to the point where Mrs. Hudson was called over to turn off the taps after fifteen minutes since Sherlock's arms were being held in a vice grip.

"T-thank…. G-god. I didn't know… h-how much more of that I c-c-could take." John said, trying to force a smile, if only to stop Mrs. Hudson from looking like she was going to have a cry.

Sherlock gave a very small chuckle to elevate the tension in the room. "I'm going to need my arms back John… that's if you can get out of the bathtub yourself."

John echoed his friend's faint laugh and like a rusty automaton, he released Sherlock. "I swear I'm going to kill you one day Sherlock – that's if you don't kill me first."

Mrs. Hudson grabbed a towel and moved to throw it over Sherlock's head, but the man ducked out of the bathroom and headed back to the kitchen. He was leaving little puddles in his wake. "I'll make you some warm tea. Mrs. Hudson, please make sure he puts on some dry clothes as soon as possible..."

The landlady looked momentarily lost before she looked back to John who looked like a drowned rat trapped in a tub. "What was all that about?"

"Acid spill Mrs. Hudson… don't worry about it. Just a typical day at 221B." John sighed and leaned back in the bathtub. Sometimes living with Sherlock Holmes was too much for an ordinary man.

After a few minutes, during which John dried off and changed, Sherlock came back with a cup of hot tea and a blanket.

"I'm sorry." The words came out so quickly and awkwardly that John was dumbfounded.

"That's okay Sherlock. Accidents happen." John took the blanket from his flat mate and threw it over his shoulder so that he could wander into the living room and finish his tea. Though from that night on Mrs. Turner from next door never looked at John and Sherlock the same way. Apparently Mrs. Hudson's play-by-play wasn't quite as accurate as John would have liked it to be…

.

* * *

**Author's Notes**:

God this took far longer than I ever intended it too... and it wasn't even proof read properly (It's 3am and I'm way too tired...). Thank you all for reviewing! I'll probably be starting another fic once season two is done. Anyone else find the first episode... just... _epic_? I miss some old characters though. Sarah had her moments and I do like Sally and Anderson. Where for art thou? Hope you all have a good year!


End file.
